Violent Cosmic Symphony

Something is wrong long before he can prove it.

Spencer Reid notices patterns the way other people notice colors, and your absence, your shift, is a pattern he cannot ignore. You have always been consistent in a way that steadies him: messages scattered throughout the day like quiet check-ins with the world, small observations about things most people would overlook, pictures that aren’t remarkable to anyone else but carry weight simply because they are yours. He has catalogued them without realizing it, filed them somewhere between routine and attachment, stored with the same unconscious precision he applies to everything else. A picture of tomatoes you bought to make a salad. A blurry snapshot of a book you almost purchased. A message sent too quickly, full of typos, because you were thinking of him in passing. None of it extraordinary. All of it essential. So when the rhythm breaks, when the messages come hours late, stripped down to a handful of careful words, when your replies feel distant, reduced to emojis he can’t quite interpret, when there are no pictures at all, no fragments of your day offered up without prompting, it does not register as coincidence. It registers as absence within presence. As something missing where something should be.

 It registers as deviation.

 And deviation, in his world, never exists without reason.

 At first, he tries to rationalize it, because that is what he does, he builds explanations the way other people build reassurance. There are dozens available to him within seconds, all statistically plausible, all grounded in ordinary human behavior. People get busy. People get tired. People misplace their phones or forget chargers or lose track of time in ways that have nothing to do with danger. He even considers technical failures, dead batteries, signal interruptions—anything mechanical, anything impersonal—because assigning your silence to something external is easier than allowing it to mean something internal. But none of those explanations settle properly. They linger, incomplete, like variables that refuse to align. Because even when you are busy, you tell him so he knows to step back. Even when you are tired, you send something small, something minimal, because you know he will notice the absence otherwise. Even when everything else slips your mind, you do not forget him. That is the constant his brain cannot reconcile, the fixed point that makes every alternative explanation collapse under its own weight. It is not the silence itself that unsettles him. It is how unlike you it is.

 By the second day, his thoughts begin to widen, stretching outward into darker, sharper possibilities with a precision he cannot disable. He knows too much about the worst versions of the world, has seen too many cases where silence was not emptiness but warning, where the absence of contact was the first and only indication that something irreversible had already begun. His mind supplies information without invitation: response time irregularities, behavioral withdrawal patterns, statistical correlations between sudden communication gaps and distress. He hates the direction his thoughts take, hates how quickly logic transforms into fear, but he cannot stop the process once it begins. Reason does not comfort him the way it usually does. It refines the panic, gives it structure, sharpens it into something more difficult to dismiss. Every hour that passes without a real response becomes a data point. Every unanswered message becomes evidence. Every absence becomes louder than anything you could have said.

 By the time the jet lands, he is no longer capable of waiting.

 He does not say a proper goodbye. There is no careful explanation, no polite acknowledgment, just abrupt movement, urgency overriding protocol in a way that feels unfamiliar even to him. The street is too loud, too slow, too full of obstacles, and the subway becomes an unacceptable variable the moment he considers it. Too many stops. Too many delays. Too much time spent underground, unable to act if something is already wrong. He takes a taxi instead, the decision made in less than a second, driven entirely by the need to eliminate delay. His heart is beating too fast—tum, tum, tum—loud enough that it disrupts his concentration, interferes with the precise calculations he usually relies on. When the ride ends, he hands the driver money without counting it, numbers blurring together in a way that would normally be impossible for him. He knows it is too much. He does not care.

 The key feels heavier in his hand than it should.

 There is a tightness in his chest he recognizes but cannot regulate, something bordering on panic but quieter, compressed into something sharp rather than explosive. His mind prepares him for impact, for something visible that will justify the urgency clawing at him: disarray, broken objects, absence, anything that aligns with the fear he has already constructed. But when the door opens, there is nothing.

 No broken windows.

 No overturned furniture.

 No blood. No sound.

 Everything is exactly as it should be.

 And that, somehow, is worse.

 The apartment is too still, too untouched, as if time has not passed but paused. The air feels unchanged, heavy with a silence that is not peaceful but hollow, like something has been removed rather than settled. There is no evidence of interruption, no sign of struggle, no visible explanation he can hold onto. The normalcy strips away every external possibility he has tried to rely on, leaving him with something far more unsettling: the realization that whatever is wrong is not something he can see.

 It leaves him alone with the one explanation he has been trying not to consider.

 He finds you after a moment, and the relief is so immediate it almost disorients. You’re there. Sitting exactly where you should be, exactly how you should be. Whole. Breathing. Safe. His lungs finally pull in air properly, his shoulders loosening just slightly as his mind scrambles to reconcile the reality in front of him with the catastrophe it had already begun to construct.

 You’re there. You’re safe.

 But then he looks closer.

 And the relief doesn’t settle the way it should.

 Because something is still wrong.

 It’s not obvious. Not immediate. It doesn’t exist in the kind of visible damage he was bracing himself to find. It’s quieter than that, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice, buried in the small details of your body. It’s in the way you sit, not relaxed but contained, your shoulders drawn inward just enough to suggest tension rather than comfort, like you’re folding into yourself without realizing it. It’s in the way your movements feel slightly delayed, like there’s a fraction of a second between stimulus and response, like your mind has to catch up to your body. It’s in your eyes, lifting to meet his just a little too slow, like you had to remind yourself to look up at all.

 The coffee on your desk has gone cold.

 You haven’t noticed.

 That alone is enough to unsettle him further.

 His gaze shifts, instinctively cataloguing the environment the same way he always does, but now every detail feels loaded with meaning he hasn’t fully uncovered yet. The desk is cluttered in a way that doesn’t feel like simple mess, it feels excessive, almost frantic. Books are stacked unevenly, opened and filled with notes that bleed into the margins, lines underlined too many times, handwriting layered over itself like repetition might force something to stick. Pens are scattered everywhere, uncapped, some fallen to the floor, others abandoned mid-use. The coffee cup sits forgotten at the corner, untouched long enough to lose heat completely.

 And then there are the pictures.

 They’re wrong.

 Not gone, not damaged, just…shifted. The photos of your younger self that used to be carefully placed along the wall are slightly out of alignment, some tilted, some moved closer together, others spaced apart like you’ve handled them too many times, adjusted them over and over without settling on a final position. It’s subtle, but it’s deliberate. Not accidental. Not random.

 His eyes move to your computer.

 The screen is still on.

 The university website is open, tabs layered over tabs, information pages, schedules, requirements, but behind it, not even hidden properly, is something else. A page from your old high school. Familiar in a way that feels out of place now. Outdated.

 It doesn’t fit.

 None of it fits.

 “Oh—hi,” you say, your voice just slightly breathless, like you’ve been caught mid-thought rather than mid-action. You look surprised, but not in the way he expects, not fully present in it, like the reaction doesn’t reach all the way through you. “Didn’t know you’d be here today.”

 There’s a small delay before he responds, not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he’s still processing, still aligning what he’s seeing with what he understands.

 “Hi.” He sets his bag down on the sofa, the movement automatic, his attention never leaving you as he steps closer. “I sent you a message.”

 It’s meant to be neutral. An observation. A simple statement of fact.

 But it comes out tighter than intended.

 “You didn’t answer.”

 Your reaction is almost nothing.

 Almost.

 A flicker in your expression, a hesitation so brief it would be invisible to anyone else, but not to him. Never to him.

 “I’m sorry,” you say, and the apology lands heavier than it should, disproportionate to the situation, immediate and reflexive in a way that makes something in his chest tighten again. “I was…looking a few things, you know. Study and all.”

 Study.

 The word doesn’t settle any better than the others, because nothing about this looks like studying.

 It looks like circling something.

 It looks like getting stuck.

 It looks like you’ve been here for hours without moving forward.

 He doesn’t interrupt you. Doesn’t correct you, even though the inconsistency is obvious, almost loud to him. He lets the explanation exist, even if it doesn’t hold, because pushing it apart too quickly would only make you retreat further. Instead, he watches—just for a second, then another—taking in everything you’re not saying. The stillness in your hands, the tension you haven’t let go of, the way your gaze brushes past him instead of settling.

 And then he does what he thinks you need.

 What you always seem to need when words get too complicated.

 “I missed you.”

 It’s quiet, softer than anything else he’s said since he walked in, stripped of analysis, stripped of concern, left intentionally simple. He steps closer, careful in the way he always is with you when something feels fragile, and presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head. Not invasive, not demanding, just present.

 An offering, not a question.

 Something that doesn’t require you to explain.

 You don’t move at first.

 Not away from him. Not toward him either.

 You just…stay.

 Still, in that same careful way, like even the smallest shift might cost you more than it should. His lips barely linger against your hair before he pulls back, not because he wants to, but because he’s paying attention to you, to the way your body holds itself, to the invisible line he doesn’t want to cross without permission.

 Up close, it’s clearer.

 Your breathing isn’t uneven, not like panic, not sharp or erratic, but shallow, like you’re forgetting to take in enough air. Your fingers are curled slightly against the desk, not tense enough to tremble, but not relaxed either.

 Like everything in you is paused mid-motion.

 “I brought you something,” he says after a moment, voice still soft, like he’s testing how much sound the room can take without breaking. It’s not entirely true—he hadn’t planned it, hadn’t thought about bringing anything—but he reaches into his bag anyway, pulling out a small, slightly crumpled paper bag from a bookstore near where he’d been working. He sets it gently beside your cold coffee.

 Inside, there’s a book. Something simple. Something he thought you might like days ago, before this silence started.

 He doesn’t push it toward you.

 Just leaves it there.

 “I bought the same one yesterday,” you say suddenly, your voice slipping back into the room like it had been waiting at the edge of it. You gesture faintly toward another bag—neater, untouched—resting near your desk.

 For a second, he stills.

 “Oh…” he answers, softer now, something in his tone shifting almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t know if you already had it.” A pause, small but present. “You usually tell me.”

 There’s no accusation in it. Just a fact. Just something that used to be normal.

 The space stretches again, not as sharp as before, but still heavy. He watches the way your eyes flick toward the bag, then away, like even that small gesture feels like too much to process.

 And that’s when he understands it, at least partially.

 This isn’t avoidance.

 It’s overload.

 His gaze shifts back to the desk, to the pages filled with overlapping notes, the repetition, the density of it all, and then back to you again.

 “Hey…” he says gently, crouching down slightly so he’s closer to your level, careful not to block your space, not to corner you. “How long have you been sitting here?”

 Not what are you doing.

 Not why didn’t you answer.

 Something simpler. Something you might actually be able to answer.

 Your shoulders lift just barely.

 “I don’t know,” you admit, voice quieter now, less structured, like the effort to sound normal is slipping. “I just…needed to finish something.”

 But your eyes flick to the same page.

 The one you haven’t turned.

 The one filled with the same sentence written three different ways.

 He nods slowly, like that makes sense, even if it doesn’t.

 “Okay,” he murmurs. “We don’t have to finish it right now.”

 You don’t respond.

 Not immediately.

 Your gaze stays on the desk, like you’re still halfway somewhere else, like letting go of it, even for a second, feels wrong.

 “I can’t just stop,” you say finally, and it’s not defensive. It’s quiet. Frustrated in a way that sounds more like you’re explaining something to yourself than to him. “I was trying to get it right and then I kept forgetting what I was doing and then I had to start again and—” You cut yourself off, your breath catching slightly, not sharp, but strained. “It’s stupid.”

 “It’s not,” he answers immediately.

 Too quickly to be rehearsed.

 Too certain to be polite.

 You go quiet again, your fingers tightening just slightly against the edge of the desk.

 “Can I sit here?” he asks softly, gesturing to the space beside you.

 You nod.

 He moves slowly, taking the seat next to you without disturbing anything, without touching anything he doesn’t need to. For a moment, he just exists there with you, not speaking, letting the room settle around both of you instead of trying to change it.

 Then, after a beat—

 “Can you tell me what you were trying to finish?”

 His voice stays gentle, but there’s something grounding in it now, something structured. Not overwhelming, not analytical, just enough to give you something to hold onto that isn’t everything at once.

 You hesitate.

 “…It’s just one paragraph,” you say. “It shouldn’t be this hard.”

 He nods again, like that’s completely reasonable.

 “Okay,” he says. “Then we’ll just look at the paragraph.”

 Not the whole assignment.

 Not everything on the desk.

 Just that.

 Your eyes shift to him, just slightly more focused this time.

 “Just that?” you repeat, like the idea itself feels unfamiliar.

 “Just that,” he confirms.

 A small pause.

 “…and if it’s still hard,” he adds quietly, “then we can make it smaller or try later.”

 Something in you loosens, not enough to undo everything, but enough to register. Your shoulders drop a fraction, your next breath comes deeper, and your eyes gloss over just slightly, like the suggestion itself hits somewhere you weren’t expecting.

 But then—

 “No, it’s late,” you say, too quickly, like the moment closes before it can settle. You push your chair back and stand, creating distance where there hadn’t been any. “You probably want to sleep.”

 It’s abrupt. Not rude, just…redirecting. Like you’ve stepped out of something before it could fully reach you.

 And when you move, he notices it immediately.

 Your hair is still damp.

 Not freshly washed, no, it’s been long enough for it to stop dripping, but not long enough for it to dry. It clings slightly to your neck, uneven, like you never finished taking care of it. Like you stopped halfway through something else, too.

 Like everything today.

 “You’re going to get a cold,” he says softly, the concern slipping out before he can filter it. His hand lifts almost without thinking, fingers brushing lightly along a strand of your hair, tucking it back just enough to get it off your skin.

 “I’m okay,” you answer.

 And there’s nothing defensive in it. Nothing sharp, nothing that pushes him away outright.

 Just distance.

 Flat distance that settles into the space between you and gently closes the conversation without ever saying it’s over.

 For a second, he almost pushes past it.

 You can see it, the way his breath shifts, the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, the way his lips part like he’s about to ask again, differently this time. Not are you okay, but something more precise. Something that might reach the part of you that’s slipping away from him.

 But he doesn’t, because he’s learned you.

 Learned the difference between silence that can be questioned and silence that has to be approached carefully, like something fragile resting just under the surface.

 And right now, this feels fragile.

 “Okay,” he says quietly.

 He shifts his weight, putting just enough space between you without making it feel like distance. His hand brushes the back of the chair as he moves, not absentmindedly, but grounding, like he needs something solid to keep himself steady before letting go of the moment.

 “I’m going to take a shower,” he adds, tone gentle, casual in a way that doesn’t demand attention. “Warm up a bit.”

 There’s a pause, small but intentional.

 His eyes flick to your hair again, then back to your face.

 “You can—” he starts, then lets the sentence fall away before it becomes something heavier. Not you should. Not you need to. Just a suggestion left unfinished, open enough that you can step into it or ignore it without feeling watched.

 He doesn’t wait for your response.

 Doesn’t make you choose in front of him.

 Instead, he turns, moving toward the hallway with quiet steps. Nothing abrupt, nothing that disrupts the delicate stillness you’ve built around yourself. The bathroom light flicks on, casting a warm glow that spills outward, stretching into the dimness of the apartment.

 And when he reaches the door, he doesn’t close it.

 He leaves it open.

 Not wide enough to be intrusive, not enough to make his presence unavoidable, but enough. Just enough that the line between rooms isn’t sealed off. Enough that the light reaches you. Enough that the space between you doesn’t feel like separation.

 A moment later, the sound of water begins.

 And for a long moment, you stay exactly where you are, standing in the middle of the room as if your body hasn’t quite received the signal to move forward. The apartment feels different now, filled with the distant rush of water spilling against tile, a constant sound that replaces the oppressive quiet from before. It softens the edges of everything just enough to make it bearable, just enough to keep your thoughts from pressing in all at once.

 Eventually, you move.

 Not back to the desk. Not back to the paragraph that still sits unfinished, waiting in the exact same place you left it, heavy with effort that never quite turned into progress.

 You turn instead toward the bedroom.

 Your movements are slow, automatic, like muscle memory is carrying you through something your mind isn’t fully present for. Lights are switched off without you really noticing when. The hallway dims behind you. The bedroom feels colder somehow, emptier, even though nothing has changed.

 You change clothes without thinking about it, fingers fumbling slightly at the edges of fabric, your coordination just a fraction off in a way that would be easy to miss if you weren’t already so aware of yourself. Your hair is still damp, cool against your neck and shoulders, leaving faint, uneven patches against the fabric of your shirt.

 You don’t dry it.

 You don’t think about it.

 You just lie down.

 The mattress dips beneath your weight in a way that should feel familiar, but it doesn’t settle right. It feels distant, like your body hasn’t fully arrived with you, like you’re only partially there, suspended somewhere between movement and stillness. The sheets are cool against your skin, faintly wrinkled beneath your hands, and the pillow barely shifts when your head meets it, like even gravity feels muted.

 You stare up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, tracing nothing. Your gaze drifts without anchoring itself to any one point, slipping across the faint shadows in the corners, the subtle variations in texture you don’t consciously register. Your mind is quiet, but not in a restful way, empty in the way that feels hollow rather than calm, like thoughts are trying to form but dissolve before they can become anything solid enough to hold onto.

 For a few seconds, there’s nothing.

 Just the distant sound of water running down the hall. The quiet hum of the apartment. The steady rhythm of something that should feel normal.

 Then your chest tightens.

 It’s subtle at first, so small you almost miss it. A slight pressure, like your body is sitting wrong inside itself, like your lungs didn’t quite expand the way they were supposed to. You shift instinctively, adjusting your position, one shoulder rolling back, your hand tugging the blanket higher across your chest as if warmth might fix something you can’t quite name.

 It doesn’t.

 The tightness lingers.

 And then, slowly, it grows.

 Not suddenly. Not sharply. But steadily, quietly, like something invisible is pressing inward, narrowing space you didn’t realize you needed. Your next breath comes in shallow, stopping halfway through your chest before it can settle. It feels incomplete, like a sentence cut off too soon. Your body tries again automatically, faster this time, a little more urgent.

 Still not enough.

 Your fingers curl into the sheets without you noticing, nails catching faintly in the fabric, grounding yourself in something solid even as your body begins to feel less so. Your heartbeat shifts, not racing at first, not erratic, but louder, each beat landing with a weight that draws your attention inward whether you want it to or not.

 Something is wrong.

 You try to take a deeper breath.

 Your chest tightens further, the pressure sharpening into something that almost hurts now, and suddenly you’re aware of it, of every breath that doesn’t go deep enough, of the way air seems to pass through you instead of filling you, of the growing space between what your body needs and what it’s getting.

 Your thoughts begin to fracture.

 They don’t form fully, don’t settle into anything coherent, just flashes, incomplete and overlapping.

 Why does it feel like this—

 No, I’m fine, I just drank a lot of coffee—

 Another breath.

 Too fast.

 Your lungs burn faintly now, a dry, aching sensation that spreads with every shallow inhale. Your throat tightens, your breathing slipping out of rhythm entirely, pulling faster and faster without ever satisfying the need behind it. Your hands grip the sheets harder, fingers tightening until the fabric bunches beneath them, until it’s the only thing you can feel clearly.

 But even that starts to fade.

 The room shifts, like the air has thickened, pressing against your skin instead of moving around you. Your chest tightens again, sharper this time, enough that your shoulders draw inward instinctively, curling slightly as if you’re trying to protect something fragile inside you.

 Your breathing stutters.

 You try to slow it down but you can’t.

 It speeds up instead, dragging you with it, your body moving faster than your mind can follow, and there’s this rising, overwhelming certainty, irrational but absolute, that something is about to go very, very wrong.

 You don’t call for Spencer.

 The thought doesn’t even exist long enough to become an option.

 Everything is too loud inside you, too immediate, your body taking over in a way that leaves no space for anything else.

 The water is still running.

 The door is still open.

 And he hears it.

 Not immediately, not as something clear or distinct, but as a disruption. A subtle break in the pattern of sound he hadn’t consciously realized he was following. The apartment doesn’t feel the same anymore. Beneath the steady rush of water, there’s something uneven, something strained, something that doesn’t belong.

 He stills.

 And then he hears it.

 Your breathing.

 Fragmented. Irregular. Wrong.

 The water shuts off instantly.

 “Hey—?” he calls, not loudly, but sharp enough to carry, to cut through the space between rooms.

 No answer.

 Just the sound of you trying to breathe.

 That’s enough.

 He doesn’t think after that and he just moves.

 Quick, stepping out without hesitation, the cold air hitting his damp skin as water still clings to his hair, his shoulders, trailing down his arms in uneven lines. He barely registers it, barely notices the way it chills against him as he grabs a towel, securing it hastily around his hips without slowing down.

 The bathroom light spills behind him, warm and bright, stretching down the hallway as he moves through it, his footsteps quiet but urgent against the floor.

 He reaches the bedroom in seconds.

 And there you are.

 Curled slightly into yourself, not tightly, not fully, but enough that something in his chest tightens sharply at the sight. Your body is caught between stillness and motion, your hands clenched in the sheets, your breathing uneven and too fast, each inhale shallow, each exhale incomplete.

 “Hey—hey, look at me.”

 He’s at your side almost instantly, his voice softer now, controlled in a way he forces it to be, steady despite the urgency running underneath it. He leans in just enough to be in your space without overwhelming it, anchoring himself before reaching for you.

 Your eyes flick toward him, unfocused, like you’re trying to see him through something else entirely.

 “I can’t—” you manage, your voice breaking midway, caught on the same edge as your breath. “I can’t breathe—”

 “You can, baby,” he says immediately.

 His hands hover for a fraction of a second, not unsure, just careful, before settling lightly around your wrists, his touch firm enough to be grounding but gentle enough not to trap you, not to add to the overwhelm already building in your body.

 Your pulse is fast.

 Too fast.

 “Stay with me, okay?” he murmurs, leaning in slightly so he stays within your line of sight. “Just look at me.”

 Your gaze struggles, flickering, unfocused…then, slowly, it lands.

 “Good,” he says softly, his voice lowering, steadying further. “That’s good.”

 One of his hands shifts, sliding into yours instead, his fingers wrapping around yours in a consistent grip. His thumb begins to move almost immediately, tracing small, repetitive patterns against your skin, so predictable, something your body can latch onto even when everything else feels like it’s slipping away.

 “Breathe with me.”

 He exaggerates it, making it visible, deliberate, something you can follow instead of something you have to figure out.

 “In through your nose…slow. Just try, love.”

 You try.

 It catches.

 Your breath stutters halfway in, breaking before it can complete.

 He doesn’t react to that.

 Doesn’t let it become something wrong.

 “Okay,” he says gently. “That’s fine. Again.”

 His voice doesn’t change. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rise.

 “Four seconds,” he continues quietly. “I’ll count.”

 He does.

 “And out through your mouth…longer.”

 Your breath breaks again, shaky, but it follows him just enough.

 Again.

 And again.

 His grip adjusts instinctively when yours tightens, never letting go, never pulling away. The rhythm of his voice threads through the chaos in your head, giving it something to settle against, something consistent when everything else feels like it’s unraveling.

 “I’m right here, love,” he murmurs, closer now, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his presence steady and unyielding. “Nothing’s happening to you. Your body just thinks it is.”

 Your breathing is still too fast, still uneven.

 But something shifts, just enough that the edges of the panic don’t feel as sharp, don’t feel like they’re closing in quite as tightly.

 Your grip tightens around his hand.

 He holds on.

 “Stay with me,” he repeats softly.

 And he doesn’t let you drift.

***

You don’t cry the same way the whole time.

At first it’s uneven, sharp inhales that break apart, your shoulders shaking in small, uncontrollable movements like your body is still catching up to everything that just happened. But slowly, it softens. The panic drains out of it, leaving something quieter behind. The kind of crying that doesn’t fight you as much, but stays.

 Spencer adjusts without you having to ask.

 His hand never leaves yours. If anything, his grip softens just enough to follow yours instead of holding it in place, his thumb still tracing those repetitive motions like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His other arm shifts around you more fully, careful but steady, guiding you closer until your forehead brushes against his shoulder. He doesn’t pull you in abruptly, he lets you lean, lets you choose it, but once you do, he stays there. Warm. Unmoving in the way you need.

 “It’s okay,” he murmurs again, softer now, his voice barely above a breath. “You don’t have to hold it in.”

 That’s what does it.

 Because you have been.

 For hours. For days, maybe longer.

 Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shoulder, clutching lightly like you need something to anchor you while everything else slips, and your voice breaks again when you try to speak.

 “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you admit, the words fragile but real, like they’ve been sitting there for a long time waiting to be said. “I don’t think I’m…I don’t think I’m good enough for anything anymore.”

 His arm tightens around you, not enough to trap you, just enough to say I’m here without interrupting you.

 “You are,” he says quietly.

 But he doesn’t push it, doesn’t argue it like a fact you have to accept. He just lets it sit there beside what you’re feeling.

 You shake your head against him.

 “It doesn’t feel like that,” you whisper. “It feels like I’m falling behind something I used to understand.”

 Your voice cracks again.

 “And if I can’t get it back, then what happens?” you continue, the words spilling out slower now, like you’re finally letting yourself look at them. “What if I just…can’t do it all anymore? What if this is it?”

 He shifts slightly, his hand coming up to rest gently against the back of your head, fingers brushing through your still-damp hair in careful motions.

 “That’s a really big ‘what if,’” he murmurs, voice warm, grounding. “Your brain’s jumping really far ahead, angel.”

 You let out a weak, humorless breath against his shoulder.

 “I know,” you say. “But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

 His fingers keep moving through your hair, so patient.

 “You don’t have to stop it,” he says quietly. “You just don’t have to believe it right now.”

 You stay quiet for a second, your breathing finally evening out, your body no longer trembling the way it was before.

 “I’ve always had this,” you say after a moment, your voice smaller now, more tired than broken. “Since I was younger. I always knew what I was doing. I always knew what I was good at.” Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt. “It made everything make sense.”

 He hums softly, encouraging without interrupting.

 “And now I don’t,” you admit. “And if I don’t have that anymore, then I don’t know what I am.” A pause. “I feel like I lost…my purpose or something.”

 That word sits heavy between you.

 Purpose.

 “I don’t want to just be nothing new,” you add, almost under your breath. “I don’t want to be someone who used to be good at something.”

 There’s a quiet stretch after that.

 Spencer doesn’t rush to fill it.

 He lets your words settle, lets them exist fully before he responds, his hand still gently combing through your hair, his other thumb brushing slow circles against your knuckles.

 When he speaks, it’s softer than before.

 “You know,” he starts, a little thoughtful, like he’s choosing something personal on purpose, “when I was younger, I didn’t really question what I was good at either.”

 You shift slightly, just enough to listen.

 “It was…obvious,” he continues. “Everything made sense quickly. Patterns, information, outcomes. I didn’t have to work for it the way other people did.” A small pause. “And I thought that meant it would always feel like that.”

 His hand stills for a second, then resumes, gentler.

 “But it didn’t,” he says quietly. “There were times where it slowed down. Where things got harder. Where I couldn’t access things the way I usually could.” He exhales softly. “And I thought that meant I was losing it too.”

 Your fingers loosen just slightly.

 “I wasn’t,” he adds.

 Not defensive, just certain.

 “I was overwhelmed. Tired. Sometimes scared in ways I didn’t recognize right away.” A small, almost self-aware pause. “And my brain didn’t stop working. It just stopped working the same way.”

 That settles somewhere deeper than reassurance.

 Because it’s not trying to fix you, it’s meeting you where you are.

 “You’re still that person,” he says gently, shifting just enough to tilt his head so he can look at you properly, his forehead brushing yours again. “The one who understands things. The one who cares about doing it right. That didn’t disappear.”

 Your eyes flicker, still wet, still uncertain.

 “It just feels like it did,” you whisper.

 “I know,” he says softly.

 His hand cups the side of your face now, careful, his thumb brushing lightly under your eye where your tears haven’t fully dried.

 “But feeling like you lost something and actually losing it are not the same thing.”

 He doesn’t rush you to respond.

 Doesn’t push you to agree.

 He just stays there, close, his touch grounding in a way that doesn’t overwhelm, just reassures.

 “You’re allowed to not recognize yourself for a little while,” he adds quietly. “That doesn’t mean you’re gone.”

 Your breath steadies a little more.

 “And you’re definitely not ‘nothing,’” he murmurs, almost a whisper against your skin. “Even on your worst day, you’re still…you.”

 There’s a small pause.

 Then, gentler—

The door doesn’t slam.

Spencer never slams doors.

But it closes a little too firmly, a little too carefully controlled, and that’s how you know.

You look up from where you’re curled on the couch, the soft glow of the TV painting the room in low light. For a second, he just stands there with his hand still on the handle, shoulders slightly hunched like he hasn’t quite made it all the way back yet.

“Hey,” you say softly.

His head lifts at your voice. The tension in his face shifts, not gone, just… tucked away. Filed under something neater.

“Hi.”

It’s automatic, the way he crosses the room to you. Like muscle memory. Like you’re part of the routine he trusts. He leans down, presses a quick kiss to your lips—gentle, familiar—but it’s over before it can settle into anything.

Too quick.

“Case ran long,” he adds, already pulling back, already halfway somewhere else in his head. “I’m—uh—I’m gonna shower.”

“Spence—”

But he’s already moving.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, the quiet click of the bathroom door following a second later. Then the rush of water.

And just like that, the apartment feels… off.

You frown slightly, staring at the space he left behind. The way he didn’t linger. Didn’t ramble. Didn’t even really look at you beyond that quick, checking-in glance.

Something’s wrong.

Not catastrophically wrong. You know what that looks like. You’ve seen it before.

This is quieter than that. He’s wound too tight.

You mute the TV, the silence settling in around you, filled only by the distant sound of running water. Your mind runs through possibilities—bad case, lack of sleep, something that stuck with him longer than usual.

Probably all of the above.

You push yourself off the couch, padding down the hallway. The bathroom door is still closed, steam already curling faintly from beneath it. You hover there for a second, considering knocking.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean your shoulder against the wall, arms crossing loosely as you wait.

The water runs longer than usual.

When it finally shuts off, there’s a pause. A long one. Like he’s just standing there, gathering himself, piecing something back together before he has to step out and be a person again.

Your chest tightens a little.

The door opens a minute later, and Spencer steps out, hair damp, t-shirt clinging slightly where it hasn’t fully dried him off. He looks… better, technically.

Cleaner. Still not okay.

He blinks when he sees you there. “Oh—hi. I didn’t—uh—realize you were—”

“Waiting?” you offer.

He gives a small, sheepish nod, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disappear like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say, but your eyes narrow just a little, studying him. “You just got back. You’re allowed to be weird for at least, like, an hour.”

That earns you the faintest hint of a smile. It flickers across his mouth, brief but real. “Only an hour?”

“Mhm. After that I start charging you for emotional distance.”

A quiet huff of laughter leaves him, softer than usual, but it’s something. Still, he shifts his weight like he doesn’t quite know where to go next. Like standing still might let something catch up to him.

You tilt your head slightly, softer now. “Hey… are you okay?”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze drops somewhere between you, unfocused, like he’s flipping through thoughts too fast to grab just one. You can almost see the calculations, the quiet sorting, the way he tries to find the most accurate answer instead of the easiest one.

A few seconds pass before he exhales.

“I—” He stops, presses his lips together, tries again. “I will be.”

It’s honest. Not reassuring, not entirely comforting, but real. And you’ve learned that’s what matters with him.

You nod, stepping a little closer, your hand brushing lightly against his arm. “Okay. ‘Will be’ is acceptable.”

His shoulders loosen a fraction at that. Not fully. Just enough to breathe a little easier.

“I think I just…” He rubs at the back of his neck again, damp curls catching between his fingers. “I should probably sleep. Reset a little.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That sounds like a good plan.”

There’s another pause, smaller this time. Hesitant.

Then, quieter—almost careful—“Will you… come with me?”

It’s not a big question. Not really. You’ve done this countless times before. Fallen asleep together, limbs tangled, his breathing evening out beside you.

But there’s something different in the way he asks it now.

Less routine. More… needing.

Your expression softens instantly. “Of course.”

Something in him settles at that. Not all the way, but enough that the sharpest edges dull.

“Okay,” he says, almost to himself.

He shifts, gesturing faintly down the hall like he’s not entirely sure how to transition from standing here to actually moving. You don’t wait for him to figure it out. You slip past him, bumping your shoulder lightly into his as you go.

“C’mon, genius,” you tease gently. “Doctor’s orders. Bed.”

A quiet breath of amusement escapes him, and this time the smile lingers just a little longer.

He follows you.

The bedroom feels softer somehow. Dimmer. Safer.

You tug the blankets back and climb in first, settling into your usual spot without thinking. Spencer hovers for half a second before joining you, movements slower, more deliberate, like he’s still shaking off the outside world piece by piece.

The mattress dips under his weight. There’s that same brief hesitation. Then he shifts closer.

Not dramatic. Not even fully intentional, maybe. Just instinct. His arm slides around you, tucking you in against his side, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist.

You hum softly, adjusting so you fit better against him, your cheek brushing his shoulder.

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

You can feel it, though. The tension still coiled in him. Quieter now, but not gone. His fingers flex slightly against your side, like he doesn’t quite know how to let go of everything yet.

Your gaze flicks upward.

He’s staring at the ceiling. Wide awake.

Yeah. No. Not happening.

A small smile tugs at your mouth.

“You’re terrible at this,” you murmur.

Spencer blinks, glancing down at you. “At what?”

“Sleeping.”

“I just laid down,” he protests mildly.

“Mhm. And you’re already thinking too loud.”

His lips twitch faintly. “I don’t—think loudly.”

“You do when you’re trying not to.”

That earns you a slightly more real look. A little more present.

Good. But you have another idea.

You shift suddenly, twisting out of his hold just enough to grab one of the pillows from behind you.

Spencer frowns, confused. “What are you—”

You hit him.

Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to surprise.

The pillow makes a soft whump against his arm.

He stares at you. You stare back.

“…Did you just—” he starts.

You hit him again. That does it.

“Okay,” Spencer says slowly, pushing himself up onto one elbow, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “I see what’s happening.”

“Do you?” you grin, already backing up on your knees across the bed.

“I was under the impression we were going to sleep.”

“Revised plan.”

He watches you for a second longer. Then, something shifts.

It’s subtle, but you catch it. The way the tension in his shoulders loosens, replaced by something lighter. Sharper. Awake in a different way.

“You know,” he says, reaching for a pillow of his own, “there are several strategic disadvantages to your current position.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. For one—”

You don’t let him finish. You swing the pillow, aiming for his chest.

This time, he’s ready for it. And just like that, the room changes.

Laughter breaks through the quiet, sudden and bright, as Spencer catches the pillow and immediately retaliates. The first hit he lands is clumsy, glancing off your side, but the second—

“Hey!” you laugh, scrambling away as he moves forward.

The bed dips and shifts under both of you, turning the whole thing into unstable territory. You grab another pillow, swinging wildly, barely dodging his reach as he tries to corner you.

“You started this,” he reminds you, breath already a little uneven—but lighter now, threaded with something almost playful.

“And you’re losing,” you shoot back.

“I am not losing.”

“You absolutely are—”

Your sentence dissolves into laughter as he lunges, catching the edge of your pillow mid-swing and using it to yank you forward. You barely twist out of it in time, scrambling off the bed entirely with a soft thud of your feet hitting the floor.

“Oh, that’s cheating!” you accuse, already darting backward.

Spencer sits up fast, pushing his hair out of his face, eyes brighter now—really bright, the kind that only shows up when he’s fully, genuinely in something.

“That’s not cheating,” he argues, grabbing his pillow and sliding off the bed after you. “That’s adaptation.”

“You’re literally making up rules—”

“You didn’t establish any rules!”

You laugh again, breathless, backing toward the door as he advances. There’s something delightfully unfair about him like this—long limbs, quick reflexes, a surprising amount of coordination when he’s not overthinking every step.

“You’re supposed to be bad at this!” you protest.

“That seems like an assumption you made without evidence.”

“You trip over air, Spencer!”

“I trip when I’m thinking,” he corrects, already closing the distance, pillow raised like a very soft weapon. “I’m not thinking right now.”

“Oh, that’s terrifying—”

You dart sideways just as he swings, the pillow grazing your arm instead of landing square. You laugh, breathless, circling back toward the bed like it’s home base, except he’s already anticipating that, cutting you off with a step that’s just a little too quick.

Unfair.

“You’re taking this too seriously!” you accuse with a laugh, backing up until the mattress bumps into the backs of your legs.

“I take all competitive activities seriously.”

“This is not a competitive—Spencer!”

He lunges.

You try to dodge, really you do, but he catches your wrist mid-retreat, momentum carrying both of you forward. The mattress dips hard as you fall back onto it, a surprised laugh punching out of you as he follows, one knee landing on the bed beside your hip, the other sinking into the blankets for balance.

The pillows are forgotten somewhere in the chaos.

You twist beneath him, still laughing, trying to shove him off, but he’s already got you—hands catching your wrists, pinning them lightly above your head as he leans over you, hair falling into his eyes, glasses slightly crooked.

“Got you,” he says, a little breathless, a little triumphant.

“You cheated,” you counter immediately, though the words dissolve into another laugh.

“I adapted,” he corrects again, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now—real, unguarded, lingering.

You both go still for a second.

Not fully. Your chests are still rising and falling too fast, breaths mingling in the small space between you. But the movement slows. The laughter fades into something softer, quieter, like the room is catching up with you.

Spencer doesn’t let go of your wrists right away.

His gaze flickers over your face, like he’s remembering where he is. Who he’s with. The shift happens again, subtle but unmistakable, the playful edge softening into something warmer. Something heavier.

“Hi,” you murmur, softer now.

His lips twitch faintly. “Hi.”

“I missed you,” you say softly. 

“I missed you too,” he says, and it lands softer than everything else—like something he didn’t realize he was holding onto until it slipped out.

Your chest tightens in that quiet, familiar way.

You don’t rush it. You just… shift.

One of your wrists twists gently in his grasp, and he lets it go immediately—of course he does, there’s no resistance, no hesitation. Spencer has never been someone who holds on when you pull away.

But you’re not pulling away.

Your freed hand slides up, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt, and you tug him down.

The kiss meets him halfway.

It’s warm and intentional. Your lips brushing his first, testing, and then settling when he exhales softly against you like something in him just… gives. He melts.

His grip loosens on your other wrist, not dropping it entirely at first, just easing—like he’s making sure you don’t want to move again. When you don’t, when your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt instead, he lets go completely.

His hand slides down, slow and careful, tracing the line of your arm before settling at your side.

The kiss deepens—not dramatically, not all at once. It builds. Soft turns into something warmer, something that lingers a second longer each time your lips meet. His breathing shifts, uneven at the edges, like he’s still catching up to the moment.

Like he didn’t expect this. Like he needed it anyway.

You hum faintly against him, and that does something—something visible. His hand tightens just a little at your waist, pulling you closer without thinking, pressing you more firmly into the mattress beneath him.

Grounding. Needing.

When he pulls back, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe, to look at you, curls falling messily into his eyes.

There’s still a trace of that earlier tension in him—but it’s changed now. Softer. Warmer. Redirected into something that hums low under his skin.

“Is this…” he starts, voice quieter, a little rougher now. “Is this your official treatment plan?”

Your lips curve, brushing his again, lighter this time. “Mhm. Very advanced technique.”

He huffs a small breath of laughter, forehead dipping briefly against yours. “Peer-reviewed?”

You laugh. “Extensively.”

Another kiss—shorter, but more certain.

His hand shifts at your waist, thumb brushing absent, slow circles like he’s thinking without meaning to. The rest of him follows in small ways—his weight settling more comfortably over you, one knee adjusting against the mattress, his body fitting closer instead of hovering.

Less distance. Less thinking. More here.

You slide your hand up from his shirt to his jaw, thumb brushing lightly along the edge, and his eyes flicker shut for a second at the contact.

When he kisses you again, there’s less hesitation in it. Still gentle, still Spencer, but steadier now—like he’s chosen this instead of stumbled into it. He sighs when he pulls away, a deep and satisfied sound that makes you smile again.

“Thank you,” he says.

The bullpen exhales at the end of the day—chairs rolling back, files closing, the low murmur of voices tapering into goodnights and see-you-tomorrows. The fluorescent lights feel softer somehow, like even they’re tired of being on.

You shut down your computer, the screen dimming to black, and stretch your arms over your head. Your back protests. Your feet definitely protest.

“Occupational fatigue,” Spencer murmurs beside you, already gathering his things with precise efficiency. “Expected after prolonged cognitive exertion combined with—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth.

He glances at you, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “I was going to say ‘standing for extended periods.’”

“Mm. Sure you were.”

He hums, noncommittal.

“Should we go see Garcia now?”

The walk down to her lair feels different after hours. Quieter. The hum of the building is more noticeable. Air vents whispering secrets to no one. The kind of silence that makes every footstep feel just a little louder than it should.

When you reach her door, you look at Spencer.

“Ready?” you ask.

He nods once. “Yes.”

You reach for the handle before you can overthink it. The door creaks open just enough to peek in and immediately—

“STOP RIGHT THERE.”

You freeze. Spencer freezes.

Inside, Penelope doesn’t even turn around from her monitors. One hand is lifted dramatically in the air like she sensed your presence through sheer emotional vibration alone.

“I knew it,” she says, slowly swiveling in her chair now, eyes already narrowing with theatrical suspicion. “I knew I felt a disturbance in the force.”

You glance at Spencer. “…We didn’t even say anything.”

“I don’t need you to say anything,” she says, rising to her feet, pointing at you like you’ve personally betrayed her. “You think I didn’t notice the energy shift today? The vibes? The glow?”

Spencer leans slightly toward you. “…Her observational accuracy is impressive.”

“I heard that,” Garcia snaps, without missing a beat.

Then she gasps. Again. But this one is quieter. Sharper. More dangerous. Her eyes flick down.

To your hand. To Spencer’s.

Because at some point between the bullpen and here you laced your fingers together. And you didn’t let go.

Garcia’s hands fly to her mouth. “Oh my goodness.”

You wince. “Pen—”

“Oh my goodness!” she repeats, louder this time, backing up a step like she needs physical distance to process the magnitude of this. “You’re holding hands. You’re actively holding hands!”

Spencer laughs lightly. “We are aware of the hand-holding.”

“I’m spiraling,” she informs you. “I am fully spiraling right now.”

You take a cautious step inside. “Okay, but like… in a good way?”

“Oh, honey.” And suddenly she’s moving. Fast.

She crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into a hug that is somehow both careful and crushing at the same time.

“I knew it,” she says into your shoulder, voice thick with triumph and something softer. “I knew it was coming.”

You laugh a little, hugging her back. “Yeah, apparently everyone did.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you—really look at you. Her hands land on your arms, eyes scanning your face like she’s reading a headline she’s been waiting years to see.

“Are you happy?” she asks, quieter now.

You smile, softer than anything you’ve given anyone else today.

“Yeah,” you say. “I am.”

Garcia’s expression melts. “Oh, I just can't handle it!” she exclaims, and then she's pulling you in for another hug. “You're dating! You're finally dating!”

Garcia pulls back—hands still gripping your arms, eyes shining—Her gaze snaps between you and Spencer, something delighted and absolutely feral lighting up her expression.

“Wait—” she says, pointing at you, then at him, then back at you like she’s connecting invisible red strings on a conspiracy board. “WAIT.”

You already know. You already regret everything.

“Does this mean you told him about the dream?”

“Penelope!”

“What dream?” Spencer asks.

Heat floods your entire body so fast it’s almost impressive.

“Nothing,” you say immediately. Too quickly. Too brightly. “There’s no dream. There was no dream. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

Garcia makes a noise like she’s been physically wounded by your denial.

“Oh, do not even try that,” she says, pointing at you again. “You cannot just erase that conversation from existence like I don’t have a steel-trap memory and a deeply vested emotional interest. Besides, I have JJ and Prentiss as witnesses!”

“I regret saying anything to you three.”

Spencer’s brows knit together slightly, attention sharpening.

“You had a dream,” he repeats, slower now, like he’s assembling a puzzle piece by piece. “About… me?”

You make a strangled sound. “No!”

Garcia’s eyes go wide. “YES.”

“Penelope—”

“It was vivid,” she continues, talking right over you now, hands gesturing wildly. “There was blushing, there was spiraling, there was detail—”

“Okay!” you cut in, louder than you intended. Your face is on fire. “We’re done talking about this!”

Spencer’s ears are turning pink. You notice. That does not help.

“…What kind of dream?” he asks, and his voice has dropped just slightly—quieter, more careful. Like he’s not sure if he should be asking but cannot physically stop himself.

Garcia claps her hands together once, delighted. “Oh, I love this part.”

“Was it,” he starts, then hesitates, recalibrating mid-thought, “a stress-related dream? Given the timing, that would be statistically probable. The brain often processes—”

“It was not a statistical event, Spencer,” Garcia cuts in, scandalized.

You make a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea for mercy. 

Garcia leans in like she’s about to spill classified information. “It was a sex dream.”

Silence. Utter silence.

Spencer freezes. Completely. Like someone just unplugged him from reality.

You close your eyes. “I’m going to walk into traffic.”

“Please don’t do that,” Spencer says immediately.

It’s not even delayed. Not even processed. Just pure instinct, voice firm and earnest and a little alarmed, like you’ve just proposed something genuinely catastrophic instead of dramatically embarrassing.

You drag your hands down your face. “I won’t actually—”

“I know,” he says quickly, softer now, recalibrating. “It’s a hyperbolic expression of distress. But statistically speaking, pedestrian accidents—”

“Spence.”

“Right.” He clears his throat.

Silence settles again, thick and charged and deeply, deeply unfortunate.

Garcia is vibrating. You can feel it. Like she might combust into glitter and chaos at any second if no one intervenes.

Spencer, meanwhile, has gone very still beside you. Then—slowly—he looks away.

Not abruptly. Not sharply. Just… a quiet shift of his gaze toward the side, like he suddenly finds one of Garcia’s lava lamps deeply worthy of study.

His ears are still pink.

“…Well,” he says, and there’s the faintest hitch in it, like his brain is carefully stepping around something fragile, “was it… a good dream?”

Garcia makes a sound that can only be described as spiritual ascension.

You stare at him. Actually stare.

Because that was not deflection. That was not avoidance. That was—

“Oh my god,” Garcia whispers, clutching her chest. “He asked.”

“I heard him,” you hiss.

Spencer shifts his weight slightly, still not looking at you. There’s a very specific kind of composure happening—like he’s trying to maintain neutrality while standing directly in the blast radius of something he absolutely wants the answer to.

“It’s a reasonable question,” he adds, quieter now. “From a… psychological standpoint.”

Garcia spins toward him so fast it’s honestly impressive. “Oh, sweetheart, that was not clinical curiosity.”

“It can be both,” he says, a little defensively.

You let out a long, suffering breath, tipping your head back toward the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“Oh, no,” Garcia corrects immediately. “This is the best day of mine.”

You drop your head back down and look at Spencer. He finally looks at you too.

And there’s something there—soft, curious, a little uncertain, but threaded with something warmer. Something that says he’s asking carefully… but he is asking.

Your face is still burning. But your mouth betrays you anyway, tugging just slightly at the corner.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

“I’ve been told,” he replies, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile threatening at the edge of it.

Garcia makes a high-pitched noise. “I need popcorn. I need emotional support snacks. I need—”

“Penelope,” you cut in, pointing at her. “If you say one more word, I will actually walk into traffic.”

She zips her lips dramatically. Then immediately mimes unlocking them. “I’m just saying,” she stage-whispers, “if it was a good dream, that’s excellent foreshadowing.”

“PENELOPE.”

“I’m going!” she says immediately, hands up in surrender—except she’s already backing toward her desk, fingers flying for her phone. “But just so we’re clear, I am texting the group chat. This is historical information. This is cultural.”

“Pen—”

“Nope!” she sing-songs, spinning in her chair. “I gave you time. I gave you space. I let this simmer like a slow-burn romance novel. My patience has been exemplary.”

Spencer exhales through his nose. “That is not an accurate characterization—”

“Love you both!” she cuts in brightly, already dialing. “Do not do anything scandalous without me!”

And then she’s gone, murmuring into her phone as she walks away, her voice dropping into an urgent whisper that is somehow still incredibly loud.

The two of you just stand there for a moment, left alone in silence in Penelope’s lair.

And then, beside you, Spencer clears his throat. Soft. Careful. “So…” he says.

You close your eyes briefly. “Don’t.”

There’s a beat. “…That wasn’t a denial,” he points out.

You turn your head slowly, narrowing your eyes at him. “I know I've said it before, but you are unbelievable.”

“I asked a question,” he says, but there’s something almost tentative under it now. Less teasing. More… genuine curiosity. “It’s not unreasonable to want clarification.”

“You do not need clarification.”

“I might,” he counters.

“You absolutely do not.”

He shifts his weight slightly, one hand lifting like he’s about to gesture and then thinking better of it. His gaze flicks to you, then away, then back again—like he’s trying to decide how far he can push this without tipping the balance.

“…Was it,” he starts again, quieter now, “a positive experience?”

You stare at him. “Spencer.”

“Yes?”

“You cannot just rephrase it and make it sound like a survey question.”

“I’m not—” he pauses, recalibrates mid-thought, “—I’m attempting to be considerate of phrasing.”

“That is not helping.”

A flicker of something warm crosses his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or nerves disguised as it. “…I can stop asking,” he offers.

You watch him for a second.

Because he means it. You can see it in the way his shoulders ease back just slightly, like he’s already preparing to let it go. To not push. To give you space. And that—

That does something unfair to your chest.

You exhale slowly, dragging a hand down your face before letting it fall.

“It was…” you start, and then stop.

He goes very still.

You can feel it without even looking—the way his attention sharpens, quiet and complete, like the entire world just narrowed down to this one answer.

You glance at him, just briefly. “…It was not a bad dream,” you finish, carefully neutral.

There’s a pause. Then—

“…That is extremely vague,” he says.

You let out a short laugh despite yourself. “And that's all you'll get. Now, come on. You said you'd make me dinner.”

Spencer just smiles at you, and holds out his hand so you can re-intwine your fingers with his.

tags:

You smiled at him—after all, with just his mere presence, he had made that man stop staring at you. He pursed his lips in a smile.

"Thank you," you said a bit louder to be heard. He shook his head in response.

"Why? I just sat here, and somehow that was enough for him to just stop staring."

You chuckled and smiled, "Well, it did more than my ignoring tactic."

"That rarely works—" He sighed and stopped himself.

He was about to start talking about behaviour in depredators and statistics when he reminded himself he was there to try to make friends that had nothing to do with his job.

You furrowed at his sudden silence, "What are you drinking?"

"I—just whiskey, I guess. This is what I started drinking some months ago, and I stuck to it."

He noticed how your legs started to point at him while your shoulders started to relax as the conversation kept flowing—he was happy that someone could see something else in him than just someone who was broken.

And he finally decided, when he saw you were looking at your phone constantly, to ask for your number.

Without noticing, that first night led to late-night textings—to 'Have a great day at work. :)' when you didn't even know what he did at work.

He asked you to leave his work outside of the conversations as long as possible.

You understood—you were a teacher, but understood well what it meant to bring your job home, to stop planning around you and your wishes and start planning around your work necessities. So, you never really asked, he promised you that he was not on illegal things—quite the opposite, but he was trying to live a life outside of all that.

Then, those late-night textings became date after date.

Holding hands, kisses that got heated on the street, lingering touches on clothed skin, make-out sessions that leave you both breathless.

But nothing else.

He was never a man of much desire. Until he met you.

You were the first person in a long time who made him daydream. He would find himself thinking about how your soft skin would feel on his fingers, how pretty you would sound when he found those sensitive spots that made you moan his name.

But he was never going to push anything you didn't want to. He could accept anything you gave him.

This was his setting until the team started to tease him about the fact that he was distracted in the office—he seemed even pent up when someone even mentioned a spicy topic. Everyone could see he was eager to be with you, but every time he tried something, you just backtracked.

One late night at your apartment, you were already in your pajamas while he had on some sweatpants with a fitted shirt. His hair was—like always—unsheveld and looking perfect at the same time.

His mind was racing from thought to thought—he couldn't even hide that he was not completely paying attention to the movie that had been playing for the last hour. He could only think about how, some minutes ago, you were straddling his hips, kissing him as you could devour him, and now you were relaxed, watching a movie like nothing had happened.

"Spencer, do you want to leave for the night?" You finally spoke, touching his legs, trying to soothe his anxiety.

He choked on his own saliva and shook his head, "No. I—" He sighed, "I can't like and say I'm fine, right?"

"No, you can't. You haven't even told me a fact about any of the actors we've seen."

He sighed, "Are you—not attracted to me?"

Your mouth fell to the floor immediately. "What do you mean, Spencer? I love you. You look like—dear lord, I can't even express how much I like you."

"Or are you in a kind of sexual spectrum that I'm not aware of? Because I could simply accept it… I don't mind—"

You chuckled and held his hand to make him stop rambling, "What are you even talking about?"

"We've been together for months now—and even when I'm not a person with a high sex drive, I can notice you… avoid going further."

You sighed and looked down.

"No. Wait. I didn't mean—I don't mind. I don't care." He tried to apologize, but you shook your head.

"It's not that I don't like you—it's not even that I don't want to have sex with you." You paused, "I'm just… nervous."

He furrowed.

"Why would you be nervous? It's—not like I have a big experience on the field… Believe me…"

A scoff that feigned to be a laugh escaped your lips, "Spencer… I don't have any experience."

That sentence felt like a brick for him.

He could notice that you got anxious when someone mentioned previous relationships, and you made clear he was just your second partner in your whole life, but he didn't ask for more details. He didn't care about them.

"I haven't had sex… nor anything related to that." You finally admitted, "And I know it's ridiculous, but I… was not interested in it until I met you—and I wanted to tell you, but every time I backtracked…"

"Why?" He tilted his head.

"I thought you were going to think it was sad—"

He bracketed your cheeks with his hands and stared at you for a second.

"I'm trying to find the concussion that made you think such a thing."

You snorted a laugh, "I'm being serious."

He furrowed, his hands still in your cheeks, "And I'm being serious too. I can't believe you have spent these last months thinking I would laugh at something that important."

You looked down.

"I will be ready when you're ready." He mumbled, caressing your cheeks.

"I… think I'm ready…"

He shook his head, "You don't have to be ready right now, you know it, right?"

"I… know… I've been ready for quite a time now… I just didn't know how to bring the topic without sounding desperate or… eager."

"I don't care if you had sounded eager—cause you have no idea how desperate I'm for you… and for how long I've been."

He moved his hands from your cheeks to your hips, making you stand up at the same time as him. You looked at him, confused.

"What are you doing?"

"Not wasting any more time."

He held your hand and walked you to your bedroom. He sat you on the bed, and while he knelt in front of you.

"We will do as much as you want—and if you want to stop, we will stop immediately." You nodded and bit your lips.

He sighed, "Now… I'm going to talk you through it, so you know what to expect…"

"Can—I ask for something first?" Your voice was a thread almost impossible to hear. He nodded at you. "Can you—take your shirt off?"

He put his hands on the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, exposing his bare chest now. He was completely hairless—his white skin with a sun-kissed hint made him look terribly handsome.

Then you noticed some scars on his chest; they were not recent, but they seemed significant.

"I promise to tell you later… just let me have this moment," he mumbled when he noticed your eyes fixed on his scars.

You nodded—he had been hinting that his job was something unusual, but never really gave more than that information.

"I'm going to take your sweatpants now." You nodded slowly, and he started to pull down your pajama. When your bare legs were exposed, he just sighed at the sight.

"Do you want me to take off your shirt or do you want to stay dressed?" You shook, lifting your arms. He chuckled.

"I'm gonna take it off, but you need to use your words, honey. I need to hear you."

He noticed your underwear matched—it was not on purpose. Just plain black underwear, but it was driving him insane.

The way your chest heaved unevenly, how your birthmarks bedecked your skin, how your scars somehow made you look even more beautiful in his eyes.

"Stop staring," you said shyly.

"I can't—look at you. You're something I thought I didn't deserve."

He leaned over you and kissed your forehead, while his hands found the back of your bra.

"Can I?" He mumbled on your forehead.

"Please."

When he clasped open your bra, he was sure he was about to drop dead. His fingers traced their path to your breasts—his middle finger circled one bud carefully, and his free hand was placed on your hip just above the hem of your underwear.

"Do you— touch yourself?" His voice dropped, making you tremble. His eyes were still fixed on your chest.

You nodded, "Sometimes…"

"Do you want to show me?" Your breath hitched at his words, "Just if you want—"

Your glaze dropped to your underwear, heaving your hips to take your panties off. His hands were resting on your side, giving you enough space to get rid of your underwear. You bit your lips when your core was finally exposed to him—your fingers worked their way to split open yourself, two fingers slid inside while your palm caressed your nub, he was agape staring directly at you.

You felt sinful, while he could just think about how gracious you looked with your fingers inside yourself, reaching a pleasure he wanted to give you himself.

When he noticed how your hips started to thrust, trying to reach the climax, he stopped your fingers—just to latch onto your cunt immediately, his tongue delved on your clitoris while his finger dug into your thighs, his eyes were closed, completely engulfed in the taste of your core.

You were completely lost on the feeling—the way he stopped your climax from coming just to immediately make you reach your highest again. The sounds of his tongue stripping on your slit sounded through the whole of your bedroom while you threw your head back, letting the feeling fill your whole.

You knew what orgasms were—you gave yourself some every once in a while. But the way your body was reacting to his tongue and touch was completely new. Was life-changing. You knew there was no comeback from this feeling.

You were shattered—you could feel a fire pooling low in your abdomen, while a trail of electricity roamed through your whole body, and your vision faded to black—still trembling, he stopped just to stare at the way you were coming undone.

He waited—he didn't say anything—didn't even dare to touch you since he didn't want to overwhelm you if you were already sensitive.

"How are you feeling?" He finally asked, leaning over your body—towering over you.

A nod was the only thing you could give as a response; you were really trying to speak, but your mouth was dry, your voice didn't follow your instructions, and you knew that even if you could talk, you weren't going to make any sense.

He smiled and nodded, "Can I kiss you?"

"Please…"

His lips still with your taste on them found yours—his tongue delved yours, but the sudden slight touch of his bulge still covered made you squirm, you giggled with the feeling, and he sighed with a grin on his face.

"Did you like it?"

"It… was amazing…" He smiled, pecking your lips again.

"Can you handle the rest, or do you need to wait?"

"Can… we try?"

Furrowing his eyebrows, you could see how his mind was racing through a million thoughts.

"What?"

"I… didn't bring any… barrier." Your mouth fell open. You never really thought about it.

But somehow you knew—you didn't want to wait any longer.

"I—" you swallowed, "I don't mind—"

Chuckling, he pulled his sweatpants down, his briefs strangled his length, "I will take care of you, do you trust me?"

"More than anyone." You bracketed his cheeks and kissed him again.

He knelt between your thighs, his briefs showed the figure of his twitching dick, and when he finally set it free, your mouth watered with the sight.

It was big—you knew the lengths shown in porn were not something normal, and you didn't really expect to see something like that in real life. But his cock was almost perfectly shaped—it seemed big enough to hurt you if he tried to put it in immediately, but somehow it looked perfect for you.

"I—" He was looking down at his length when you interruped, "I… want to suck you…"

His gaze softened, the hand that held his cock stroked it slowly, while the hand that steadied him tensed.

"You don't have to just because I did it, you know it, right?"

"I know it—and I still want to do it."

The way you asked for it made him accept—he stood up and made you kneel in the bed, your mouth was almost lined to his cock. He stroked himself slowly while his hand stroked your hair.

"As much as you want, honey. We don't have to push it too much." You licked your lip and nodded. "So, give me your hand."

His strong hand covered yours and made you stroke him with care. His eyes rolled back when you finally moved your hand, a guttural sound left his throat, and he tried to compose himself.

His hand was still gripping your hair carefully, and you leaned closer to his cock. "You can kiss it, lick it, whatever you want to do."

Biting your lips, you cut the distance between your lips and his tip, and you kissed it. His hips twitched, making his leaking tip pass through your lips. The salty taste took you by surprise, "I'm sorry, honey. I'm so sorry."

"I—It's fine." You opened your mouth and swirled your tongue around his cock, "Be careful, slow. You're doing pretty good."

His mouth was agape while he stared at you as if you were a master piece with his cock in your mouth.

Your tongue had already roamed through his whole cock when you finally decided to put his cock inside your mouth, your lips closed around the tip, and you looked up, trying to seek some kind of approval.

"You're doing great, honey. Try to hollow your cheeks to create some suction."

You did as you were told. He grunted at the feeling, and you felt almost proud for making him feel that way.

"I'm going to start moving my hips, just tap my hip if it's too much." You tried to say something, but the vibration of your throat made him heave involuntarily.

A giggle came after, and you just tapped his hip to make him understand he was clear. He started to move his hips fucking your mouth with care. Slow, deliberate.

"You look so pretty like this, being completely mine."

Clenching at his words—you could feel arousal drowning your cunt.

You felt his cock twitching on your mouth, and he immediately stopped and pulled out.

"I—'m sorry, did I do something wrong?"

Breathing hard, he was trying to recompose himself when he looked at you.

"You did nothing wrong, honey. I—didn't want to cum in your mouth."

"Oh."

Lazily, he leaned over you again, making you lie down, "Do you really want to do it?"

"Please, please."

"This might hurt or be overwhelming—if you need to stop, just say it." He was stroking himself again, and he teased your slit with his tip. You gasped and dug your fingers into his arms.

"Now… I'm going to try to put it in." You slowly nodded.

Staring where your bodies connected, you saw how he lined his cock to your cunt, and then with his free hand, he started to circle slowly your clit, and he slid in slowly, thrusting carefully, in and out, just the tip, which made your eyes roll back.

He chuckled at your reaction. "Enjoying?"

When your arousal was already flooding your cunt he slid fully in. You gasped and arched your back at the overwhelming feeling. You found his back and made him lean closer. He stopped mid-thrust and stayed still.

"I'm sorry, honey. Are you okay?"

"It was too much…" He shook his head.

"Do you want me to pull out?" You reacted immediately and straddled him, making him impossibly closer.

"No! No…"

"Get it… get it… Don't pull out—I just wanna be sure you're not overwhelmed."

"I'm not… please don't stop."

He started thrusting slowly again, inch by inch, sliding in and out, focusing on your face, trying to find any trace of pain, any trace of backtracking. When the burning feeling finally faded away, you were feeling the real ecstasis, your mouth was watering, while your nails dug traces on his back. He was now hugging you from the back of your neck while you were kissing—almost biting his neck.

You knew it was wrong, but you needed a kind of relief from all the pleasure he was putting you in.

"You're doing just great, honey." His low-pitched voice in your ear made your legs weak.

"Don't stop, Spencer… Please."

The ringing tone of his phone took him out of his trance. He didn't want to stop—you didn't deserve to be left all pent up after finally setting yourself free. He was determined to make you come undone, even if it meant he would have to arrive at Quantico with a strangled erection.

"Do you—?" You asked, trying to make your words make sense, he shook, straightening his body. His eyes were now completely focused on your face.

His thumb circled your clit while he thrusted slightly faster, just enough to make you gasp and clasp your hands on the comforter.

You were trying to stop the coiling shockwaves rocketing in your abdomen. He furrowed when he noticed how you were trying to delay your orgasm.

"What are you doing?"

"You haven't finished—" you mumbled, he laughed.

"This is for you… This is all for you."

He leaned closer and trapped one of your nipples on his lips, licking it—and that was it. The last string holding your orgasm snapped.

Everything cut to white noise, your arms and legs went numb, while he felt proud of the way your body was now responding to all the work done. He didn't stop thrusting until he noticed you were squirming out of overstimulation.

He slid out, and you gasped at the sudden emptiness.

He dropped down next to you; his completely nude body was quite a sight. He took you in his arms and kissed your cheeks.

"Thank you so much for letting me be your first." He mumbled.

You smiled, "I'm happy that I waited this much—"

Then, you finally heard again—his phone ringing.

"Spencer… I'm not dumb… I know you gotta leave." He grunted in your hair.

"I can't say I was sleeping." his voice was muffled as he was hiding his face in the crook of your neck.

"No, you can not." You sighed, "I'll be here when you get back—and then we are going to talk."

He furrowed, and then remembered that you finally saw his scars.

"I owe you a hell of an explanation, right?"

"You can bet you do."

"You are not angry? We just… and I have to…"

You sighed, "I wish you could stay, but I know you have things to do, and I know you prolonged your stay."

"You know I love you, right?"

"I've never doubted it."

After a quick shower, he left your apartment reluctantly, his aching erections being strangled by his briefs didn't help at all, and the drive to Quantico was hell. Even after the shower he took, your aroma still lingered on his whole body, your nails around his body burned with the friction of his clothes.

When he arrived at Quantico, the team was already heading out to the jet. Luke looked at him and smiled immediately.

"I think we interrupted our wonder boy." Luke snorted a laugh, JJ furrowed at the sight, and then noticed it too.

"I was just sleeping—"

They all knew he had a girlfriend—and that he spent most of his time in her apartment, but what gave him away was that reddened mark you left on his neck that he didn't notice on his way out of your apartment.

JJ took a mirror from her purse and showed him what they meant. Spencer's cheeks flushed immediately. He tried to hide it with his hand, but it was too late. The whole team had seen it.

"I think I got some concealer on my purse, just get in the jet, and we will cover it." JJ laughed and patted his back.

After months of Spencer having his mind all over the place, it was the first time the case was solved in record time. They were back at the jet in only two days.

The room is too warm.

Sheets tangled low around your legs, twisted into something that feels more like restraint than comfort. The air smells faintly of him—soap and something sharper beneath it, something you’ve never quite been able to name but have always associated with this: these visits, these nights, this version of yourself.

He’s beside you, chest rising and falling, breath still uneven. Spent. Satisfied.

And you—

You’re not.

The difference sits heavy in the space between you, unspoken but obvious. Your body still caught somewhere in the middle of something that never quite reached its end. A tension with nowhere to go. A quiet, unfinished feeling you’ve learned not to look at too closely.

James shifts beside you with a quiet exhale, like the moment has already left him.

There’s no lingering touch, no absentminded brush of his hand against your skin—nothing that suggests he’s still here with you in any way that matters.

He stretches. It’s casual. Unbothered. Like this is routine. Like you are routine.

The mattress dips as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The air moves with him, cool against your skin where the sheets have slipped too low.

“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” he says, voice rough but detached, already halfway somewhere else.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Because then he glances toward the door. Just for a second. And that’s all it takes.

The rest of it settles into place like it always does—quiet, practiced, familiar in the worst way. He doesn’t tell you to leave. He never has. He doesn’t have to.

You know the pattern. You know your place in it.

You sit up slowly, the sheets dragging against your legs as if reluctant to let you go—or maybe that’s just you projecting something human onto something that isn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time tonight.

James stands, already reaching for his clothes. There’s no urgency in it, no embarrassment. Just efficiency. Like he’s completing a task.

Like you were one.

Your chest tightens—not sharp enough to hurt, just enough to remind you it’s there. That something is.

You gather your things from where they’ve been discarded, movements quieter than they need to be. Careful. Always careful. Like if you take up too much space, the illusion might break completely.

Like if you don’t, maybe it won’t.

A soft buzz breaks the silence. Not loud. Not intrusive. Just enough to fracture what little stillness is left.

James’s phone lights up on the nightstand.

You don’t mean to look. You really don’t.

But your eyes are already there, dragged by something instinctive, something tired and aching and quietly bracing for impact.

The screen glows in the dim light.

You don’t read the message. It's the wallpaper that gets your attention.

The girl in the picture is pretty. Effortlessly so. Long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, bright blue eyes caught mid-laugh. There’s a softness to her expression, something open and certain. Happy.

James' arm is wrapped around her waist, pulled in close—familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.

He’s kissing her cheek. And she’s smiling. Holding up her hand. A ring catching the light.

Your eyes close.

Fuck.

It’s quiet in your head for a second. Completely, unnaturally quiet. Like everything just… stops. No thoughts. No rationalizing. No soft excuses you’ve been feeding yourself for months—years, maybe. 

Just that image. Burned in.

You inhale slowly, but it catches halfway in your chest. Stutters. Doesn’t quite settle.

Of course.

Of course there’s someone else.

Of course there’s always been someone else.

Behind you, James exhales like nothing’s changed. Like the room hasn’t just tilted on its axis. Like you aren’t standing there, half-dressed and suddenly very aware of how little space you actually take up in his world.

He reaches for the phone. The screen goes dark. Just like that. Gone.

“You good?” he asks, glancing at you briefly as he pulls his shirt over his head.

Casual. Offhand. Like he’s asking if you remembered your keys.

Your throat tightens. You nod anyway. Because of course you do. Because that’s the part you know how to play.

“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out softer than you mean it to. Thinner.

He hums, distracted already, fingers moving over his phone now that it’s in his hand. Typing something out. Quick. Easy. Unbothered.

You wonder if it’s her.

You don’t ask. You won’t ask.

That would imply something you’ve never been allowed to be.

You finish gathering your things, movements slower now—not hesitant, just… heavier. Like each small action carries more weight than it should.

Like something has shifted, even if nothing outwardly has.

Your shoes. Your bag. Your jacket. You pause for half a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the fabric before you pull it on.

Waiting.

For what, you’re not entirely sure.

For him to say something, maybe. To stop you. To explain. To choose.

But nothing comes. It never does.

James doesn’t look up right away.

His attention stays on his phone, thumb moving in short, practiced motions. Whatever conversation he’s stepped back into seems to take priority over the one he hasn’t even bothered to finish with you.

Then, like he remembers you’re still there—

“I’m slammed this week,” he says, almost as an afterthought. His tone is easy, unaffected. “Meetings. Late nights. The usual.”

You nod once. Of course.

He glances up briefly, just enough to check that you’re listening. Not long enough to actually see you.

“I head out Saturday,” he adds, tugging his watch onto his wrist. Adjusting it with a small, precise movement. “But Friday’s open.”

There’s a beat.

Then, like it’s already decided—like it always is—

“Eight work for you? Just come here.”

Not do you want to. Not are you free. Not even your name.

Just an expectation. A slot in his schedule. A space you’re meant to fill.

You nod again. Because that’s what you do.

“Yeah,” you say, quieter this time. It barely lands in the room.

He hums in acknowledgment, already moving on. Conversation over. Box checked.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, like your body hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that there’s nothing left to wait for.

There never is.

So you leave.

The hallway outside is cooler.

It hits your skin in a way that feels sharper than it should, like you’ve stepped out of something thicker than air. Something that clung.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound.

And that’s it.

No footsteps following. No voice calling you back.

Just quiet.

Friday comes anyway.

It always does.

But it feels different this time—not in any loud, dramatic way. Nothing that announces itself. Just a subtle misalignment. Like something inside you shifted a fraction to the left and never quite settled back.

You go through the motions of your day. Work. Conversations. Background noise. The steady rhythm of everything that’s supposed to feel normal.

The cursor blinks.

Steady. Patient. Indifferent.

You haven’t typed in—what, minutes? Longer than that. The document on your screen sits untouched, words from earlier staring back at you like they belong to someone else. Like they were written by a version of you that knew what it was doing. A version that wasn’t… this.

Whatever this is.

The office has shifted around you without you noticing. The low hum of conversation has thinned out, chairs scraping less frequently, the rhythm of people packing up settling into something quieter. End of day.

Your fingers rest lightly against the keyboard, unmoving. Your eyes fixed somewhere just past the screen, unfocused. The kind of staring that isn’t really seeing anything at all.

Eight o’clock.

The thought drifts through, uninvited. Lands heavier than it should.

Just come here.

Your jaw tightens—barely, but enough that you feel it. A slot in his schedule. A space. Something to fill.

“Are you coming?”

The voice cuts clean through the fog. You jolt.

It’s small, but sharp—your shoulders tensing, breath catching just enough to betray how far gone you’d been. Your head turns too quickly, like your body is scrambling to catch up.

Reid is standing a few feet away from your desk.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression—not quite concern, not quite surprise. More like confirmation. Like he’d suspected you weren’t really there long before he said anything.

His bag hangs loosely from one shoulder, one hand hooked around the strap. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way he does—too observant, too precise. It’s never invasive, exactly.

Just… thorough.

“The team’s going out,” he says after a moment, voice gentle but clear enough to anchor you back into the room. “Luke found a place a few blocks over. Apparently they have—” he hesitates, searching for the phrasing, “—statistically above-average reviews for their bourbon selection.”

A beat. His gaze doesn’t leave your face.

“We’re heading there now.”

There’s a pause—not empty, not accidental. Intentional. He gives you space to respond, but not enough to disappear into.

“Are you coming?”

The question lands softer than it should. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it.

You open your mouth—“Um”—but it doesn’t go anywhere. Your eyes drop instead, almost instinctively, to your phone where it sits on your desk.

Dark screen. Still.

He doesn’t comment on it, but something shifts behind his eyes—some quiet recalibration, pieces sliding into place. He’s good at patterns. Better at people than he likes to admit.

He’s seen this before. Not the specifics. Not the details. But the shape of it. Waiting. Hesitation. Obligation dressed up as choice.

You look back up.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t filled the silence. Just stands there, steady, patient in a way that doesn’t feel like pressure—but doesn’t let you hide either.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Sure.”

The bar is louder than the office.

Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that it fills the empty spaces in your head with something external—music threading through conversation, glasses clinking, laughter rising and falling in uneven bursts. Warm light spills across polished wood and crowded tables, the air carrying the sharp, sweet burn of alcohol.

Your phone glows dimly in your hand.

Thread open. Messages stacked one on top of the other, a timeline of something that always felt like more when you were in it than it ever looks like now.

Short texts. Late-night logistics. Half-finished conversations that never needed finishing because they always ended the same way.

You scroll.

Your thumb hesitates over one from a few weeks ago—You up?—and something in your chest tightens, small and familiar. Predictable.

It’s just after eight.

You glance at the time again like it might change if you look at it differently.

No new message.

No are you on the way, no where are you, no irritation at your absence. Nothing to acknowledge that you didn’t show. Nothing to suggest he cares that you didn't.

Your teeth catch the edge of your thumb before you realize you’re doing it.

Across the table, laughter breaks—Luke saying something you don’t quite catch, JJ swatting his arm, Rossi shaking his head with that low, amused huff. It’s easy, natural. Effortless in a way that feels… distant.

A glass taps down in front of you.

You blink, pulled back just enough to look up as Emily slides a shot onto the table with a small, decisive nod.

The glass catches the light—amber, sharp. You stare at it for a second like you’re deciding whether you’re allowed to have it.

Then you pick it up.

Everyone cheers.

It’s loud, overlapping—Luke’s easy grin, JJ’s bright laugh, Garcia already halfway to a dramatic “bottoms up!” before the rest of the table catches up. Even Rossi lifts his glass with a quiet sort of approval, something softer tucked beneath it.

Spencer raises his glass of water too.

His fingers curl loosely around it, the motion a fraction delayed—like he’s watching first, cataloging, before participating.

His gaze flicks briefly toward you, quick enough that no one else would notice. Long enough that he registers the way your grip on the shot glass is just a little too tight.

Then you drink.

It burns. Sharp and immediate, a clean line of heat down your throat that should anchor you, should pull you fully into the moment. For a second, it almost does—your eyes squeezing shut, your breath catching on the exhale.

But it doesn’t last.

It never does.

Soon, the group begins to scatter.

JJ and Garcia vanish first, drawn toward the dance floor like it’s a magnet, laughter trailing behind them—bright, unrestrained, a kind of joy that feels almost dissonant after the quiet heaviness of the week.

Emily and Tara drift toward the bar, conversation already picking up mid-thought, something low and conspiratorial threading between them.

Luke and Rossi stay, leaning in over the table—voices dropping into that familiar rhythm of debate, something about whiskey aging processes and whether it actually makes a measurable difference.

And just like that, the space shifts.

Your shoulders drop before you even realize you’ve been holding them tense.

The noise of the bar swells and dips around you, laughter rising somewhere to your left, the low hum of conversation weaving in and out beneath it—but it all feels… distant. Like you’re listening through a wall. Like you’re not entirely in the room so much as adjacent to it.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s subtle, barely noticeable over the music—but you feel it. Your gaze drops immediately, like it’s been waiting for the excuse.

James.

Your thumb hovers for half a second before you tap the screen. The message is a picture. You don’t open it. You don’t need to.

You already know what it is—his version of an invitation. A summons, really. A wordless where are you? wrapped in something that’s never actually been about you.

You turn the phone face down against the table, like that somehow dulls the weight of it. Like it isn’t still sitting there, waiting. Expecting.

Your fingers curl loosely around the edge of the table instead.

You could leave.

The thought slips in quietly, familiar as a well-worn path.

You could make an excuse—say you’re tired, say you forgot something, say anything at all. No one here would question it. They’d nod, tell you to text when you get home, maybe tease you lightly about being the first to bail. And then you’d go.

Back to the hotel. Back to him. Back to something predictable. Easy.

Your teeth catch your thumb again before you can stop yourself.

You don’t belong here.

The thought settles in, heavy and certain.

You grip the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, and for the first time tonight you notice how small the space feels around you. Everyone else is laughing, moving, drifting through their easy rhythms like they belong here. And you… you’re just a shadow at the edge of it, fresh out of the academy, six months in, surrounded by people who’ve been this team for a decade. You’ve been trying to fit. Trying to catch up. Trying not to be noticeable.

You’re just a shadow at the edge, watching everyone else move like they belong here.

“Hey… you okay?”

Your chest tightens, breath stuttering. You snap your head up, startled, and your eyes catch Reid’s. He’s standing there, calm, patient, his gaze scanning you like he always does.

“I’m fine,” you say, softer than you mean to.

He tilts his head, suspicion flickering in his eyes. You know he sees through you, and the thought makes your stomach twist. You need movement, something to anchor yourself. “I’m getting another drink,” you tell him. “Anyone want anything?”

Rossi shakes his head without looking. “No thanks, kid.”

You nod, forcing yourself to push away from the table. The chair scrapes the floor, the sound louder than it should feel, echoing in the hollow space of your chest. Step by step, you move toward the bar, each one deliberate, grounding yourself in the smallest act of choice you’ve taken all night.

The hum of conversation and clinking glasses feels distant, muffled by the tension crawling up your spine. You take a breath, shallow, careful, like the air itself might betray you.

A quiet shift to your left makes you glance over. Reid’s there. Close enough that the warmth of his presence nudges your awareness, but not so close that it feels like intrusion. His hands rest lightly on the bar, posture relaxed, shoulders squared. Calm. Steady. The way he always is.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” you say, voice half curiosity, half challenge, like it matters.

He shrugs. “I don’t.”

You just nod, not because it surprises you—because it doesn’t—but because you need the distraction. Something to ground yourself in the ordinary. You catch the bartender’s eye, raising a hand.

“Vodka cranberry,” you say, forcing your voice steady. “Double.”

The words feel heavier than usual, like the alcohol isn’t just going into the glass—it’s for you, to hold on to, to push the buzzing of your chest down just a little. You watch the bartender pour, the ruby-red liquid spilling over ice, the glass catching the warm bar lights.

Reid doesn’t comment. Doesn’t question. Just leans there beside you, quiet, presence solid and patient. You can feel him cataloging, observing, and it’s both comforting and infuriating. His gaze isn’t demanding, not interrogating—it’s just… aware.

You shift slightly, curling your fingers around the glass when it lands in front of you. Cold against your palms, weight real and grounding. You lift it to your lips, sip carefully, and let the burn of it anchor you to the moment.

You glance at Reid over the rim of your glass, letting the drink settle on your tongue for a beat before you speak. The words are sharp with a thread of sarcasm, more shield than truth.

“Did you… just follow me here to watch me drink?”

Reid blinks, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s subtle, quiet, like he’s trying not to let the joke slip fully free, but it lands anyway. The kind of smile that reaches only his eyes and leaves the rest of him calm, unreadable.

“No,” he says, voice low, even, measured. But the smile lingers, a small curve of humor in the steady precision of him. “I—I thought you looked like something was bothering you.”

You don’t know why his words sting a little. It’s not exactly the concern you wanted, but it’s the first thread of recognition you’ve had all evening that someone—someone who actually sees—might notice you.

You set the glass down, careful, deliberate. Eyes meeting his, something in your expression half-asked, half-daring.

“You… you didn’t have to,” you mutter, voice low, and maybe it’s a statement. Maybe it’s a question. Maybe it’s both.

He tilts his head, that same patient tilt, as if weighing what to say, how much to share.

“I know,” he admits softly. “But I—” He pauses, eyes scanning you again, lingering on the tension you’ve carried in your posture, the way you brace yourself in space. “I just wanted to make sure you were… okay.”

You stare at him for a second. Normally, you’d nod, mumble, “Yeah, fine,” and push him away with a wall built out of routine, out of habit, out of every self-preserving instinct you’ve honed. But now… now something else is threading through you, quiet but insistent.

You let your mouth open before your brain can catch up. “My boyf—This guy I was seeing… It turns out he's engaged.”

“And of course he—he doesn’t care,” you blurt, voice catching on the last word. “I mean, not like it’s supposed to matter to me, right? We had this sort of unspoken agreement that this thing wasn't serious. But I was thinking about how if it was unspoken, was it really an agreement?”

Your hands gesture helplessly, tapping, twisting, grasping for purchase in the air. You hate how much of this is spilling out. You hate how much of this is just you, raw and unfiltered.

“And the worst part is that I couldn’t even… I couldn’t even hate him properly “ you continue. “James has always been like this, I've always known what this was. It's my own fault, really. I started thinking it was something more than what I deserve.”

Reid frowns. Opens his mouth, something on the tip of his tongue, but the words never leave his mouth.

They don't get the chance.

“What the hell?”

Your head snaps around. Heart stutters. There he is. Standing too close to the bar, shirt untucked, hair combed back, angry eyes locked on you.

“James?”

“You—” he starts, then cuts himself, eyes narrowing, voice low but tight. “You blew me off… for him?” His gaze flicks toward Reid, and you feel your chest tighten at the way he says it, the edge in his tone: him—like the word itself is a judgment.

You open your mouth, but your voice barely rises above a whisper. “I—James, it’s not—”

“Not what?” he yells, teeth clenched. “Not what? You’re supposed to care about me! I waited. I actually waited for you tonight!” His chest heaves.

You feel heat rush to your face, your chest tightening. Words stick in your throat. You try again, voice weak, small. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t,” he spits, waving a hand at you, eyes blazing. “You never do. You just… just take. Always taking. And now you’re here, with some… some old nerd?”

You can’t stop it. The word nerd bouncing off James’ teeth makes you snort before you even realize it. Small, sharp, ridiculous.

His eyes flick toward you, narrowing. “What—what’s so funny?”

You tilt your head, letting the corner of your mouth twitch. “You. You actually said that. Nerd. That’s… kind of sad, actually.”

The laugh dies quickly in your throat when you notice how fast his expression hardens. His jaw clenches. Fingers curl, like he’s balancing between self-control and something darker.

His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You—you think this is funny?”

You glare, something snapping in your chest that’s been coiled too long. The last weeks, the tension, the weight of always being small in his world, the image of her burning itself into your mind.

“No, actually, it's not funny,” you spit, voice sharper than you intend. “Because unlike you, some of us actually care about other people. You know, like, your fiancée. Or does that not matter in your little world?”

James’ nostrils flare, the heat in his face rising. “That’s none of your business!” he hisses, stepping forward, closing the distance, chest nearly brushing yours. His hand lifts, threatening—like he thinks he can push you back with sheer weight.

You don’t even flinch. Not because you’re brave—there’s no room for fear, no time for hesitation—but because Reid is already there.

In one fluid motion, Spencer’s hand clamps around James’ wrist, yanking it behind his back. His other hand presses firmly to James’ shoulder, and suddenly the ex is face-down against the bar, pinned with a precision that leaves no room for argument.

“Don’t touch her,” he says, voice low, each word clipped and deliberate—the same tone he’d use when taking a violent suspect into custody.

James struggles, shoving lightly at first, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Hey—what the hell, man?—”

Then a flicker of rage crosses his face. His eyes narrow, jaw tightening, as he shoves and strains against Spencer with increasing force.

“Do you know who you’re dealing with? You have no idea—no—” James’s face reddens, frustration mounting. “Get—off—me! You little—!”

“Let him go, Reid,” you say. “It's not worth it.”

Reid’s grip doesn’t vanish all at once. It loosens in increments, controlled and deliberate. Like he doesn’t trust the space yet. Like he doesn’t trust him.

You can see it—tension coiled in Reid’s arm, the restraint it takes to let go at all. And then James wrenches himself free.

It’s messy and abrupt, a sharp pull that breaks whatever control Reid had just barely eased into. James stumbles a half-step forward before he catches himself, chest heaving, shoulders tight with anger that has nowhere left to go but outward.

He turns to you. And for a second, you see it. Not affection, nor regret. It’s not even the hallow imitation of either he’s always fed you

It’s pride, bruised and ugly.

“You know what?” he snaps, “I’m done.”

The words land harder than they should. They’re expected, sure, but they’re still his. They’re supposed to mean something, they’re supposed to matter. You’d feared hearing those words from him for months.

“I’m done waiting around for you,” he continues, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Done dealing with your bullshit, your—your games.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to throw yourself at—what, coworkers now? Fine. Have fun with that.”

Your throat tightens. You should feel something. You do feel something. Just not what you expected. You feel the sting you’d expect—the tinge of hurt. But beneath that, beneath the instinctive urge to apologize, smooth it over, shrink yourself into something easier to handle—

You feel relief.

James exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Whatever,” he mutters. “You’re not even worth it. This is pathetic.”

He turns sharply, shoulder clipping someone as he shoves his way through the crowd, muttering under his breath, anger radiating off him in waves that part people before he makes it to them.

It’s only then, in the space he leaves behind, that you realize just how many people were watching. 

The noise of the bar doesn’t stop, but it shifts. Warps around you. Conversations falter at the edges, eyes linger a second to long before pretending they weren’t looking at all.

There’s a circle. Not a full one, not obvious, but enough. Enough to make your stomach drop. Enough to draw your eye to the woman standing just a few feet away, brows drawn slightly together and a frown on her lips. 

Prentiss shifts forward when you make eye contact, and suddenly your chest caves in on itself.

She saw.

Every word, every crack in your voice. Your fingers curl in on themselves, nails biting into your palms. 

You want to disappear.

The thought hits hard and immediate. If you could just step back, just slip out, just vanish into the crowd and out the door—

You wouldn't have to see the way they’re looking at you. You wouldn’t have to feel it. The shame curling low in your stomach and sharp in your chest, worse than anything James said.

Your throat tightens, breath catching too high in your chest. You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong here.

You take a small step back, then another. Your vision tunnels slightly, the edges of the room blurring as your focus narrows to one thing: out. You just need to get out.

“Hey, what ha—”

“I, uh—I just need some air,” you blurt, the words tripping over each other. You don’t wait for a response. 

You turn too quickly, nearly bumping into someone as you push past, murmuring a half-formed apology. The door is right there. You don’t think, you just move. Push.

The cool air hits you all at once. It cuts through the heat clinging to your skin. You inhale hard, too fast, like your lungs forgot how to do it properly and are scrambling to catch up. Cold air floods in. Again. And again.

Your hands come up instinctively, bracing against your ribs like you can physically hold yourself together.

It’s quieter out here—the traffic is slow, the music is muffled. Less noise, less pressure. 

You bend slightly at the waist, dragging in another breath, slower this time. Trying to make it stick. Trying to make it work.

Your breathing evens out first, but your heart doesn’t get the memo as quickly. 

It keeps racing, thudding hard and uneven. You take another deep breath and lean back against the brick wall, the rough texture pressing through your clothes. Solid. Grounding, in a way.

Your knees give out before you really decide to sit.

You slide down slowly, controlled at first and then not, until you’re on the sidewalk, the cold seeping through the fabric of your pants. It bites, but you don’t move. Your head tips back against the wall. Eyes close.

For a second, you wish you were a smoker.

The thought is absurd. But right now… right now feels like it would make sense. Something to do with your hands. Something to focus on.

The door creaks open behind you. Footsteps follow, measured and unrushed.

There’s a small, stubborn part of you that hopes that if you stay still enough, whoever it is might just leave. Give you a second longer to exist in the quiet, nothing expected of you.

The footsteps stop anyway, just to your left.

You crack one eye open, lashes sticking slightly where they’d pressed too tight together. Your vision takes a second to focus, the streetlight catching on something glassy, red—your drink.

You open your other eye, gaze tracking up to the person holding it out to you. Reid. 

He’s standing in front of you, one hand holding out your vodka cran, the other tucked loosely into his pocket. His poster is relaxed, but there’s something careful to it—like he’s making a conscious effort not to crowd you, not to overwhelm you.

His eyes flick over your face quickly, taking in more than you’d like him to. The slight flush still lingering on your cheeks, the uneven way your breath settles, the way your fingers curl loosely against your knees like you’re not entirely sure what to do with them.

Your gaze drops back to the glass in his hand.

“You—” your voice comes out a little rough, like you haven’t used it in a while. You clear your throat. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to leave the building with alcohol.”

“What are they going to do, arrest me?” he winces slightly, like he regrets his own joke before he’s even fully said the words.

“Well, then I guess you’re a repeat offender now, huh?” The words leave your mouth before your brain can veto them. You wince, exactly the way Reid just did.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

But Reid just lets out a quiet, low laugh. Sudden and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to say something like that. “Don’t be sorry. I joked first.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and reach for the glass. Your fingers brush his as you take it, the warmth seeping through your skin. “Thanks,” you murmur.

He doesn’t speak, just tilts his head and slides down onto the curb beside you. You stiffen immediately. “Don’t,” you whisper, a little sharp. “You’re… you’re wearing a suit.”

He glances down at the neatly pressed fabric, then back at you, corners of his mouth twitching in that faint, crooked smile that somehow disarms all argument. “I can,” he says simply. And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he does.

Reid shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands. “Are you… okay?” His voice is careful, gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.

You glance down at your knees, still gripping the glass a little too tightly. “I’m… embarrassed,” you mutter. Your throat tightens. “My boss… just saw me get berated by some guy in a bar.” The words taste bitter on your tongue. You imagine her eyes on you, all judgment and concern, and you want to crawl into yourself, disappear.

Reid lets out a quiet laugh, soft but impossible to ignore. “She actually saw me pin him to the table,” he says, voice teasing, but still calm, controlled. “Arguably, that’s a worse situation.”

A laugh escapes you, small, shaky, but genuine. You shake your head, a little of the tension leaving your shoulders. “Yeah… okay. I’ll give you that. Definitely worse.”

He tilts his head, gaze curious, unreadable. “Prentiss doesn’t care that it happened. She just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

You swallow, letting the words settle. Somehow, knowing that she’s not judging, not holding it over your head, makes the heat of humiliation fade a little. “I… I think I am,” you admit softly, letting your fingers relax around the glass. “Thanks… for defending me.”

“Any time,” he says. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way. Not by him. Not by anyone.”

Your breath hitches a little. The words settle in your chest, heavy and warm, threading through the lingering embarrassment. You glance up at him, half-expecting teasing, half-expecting judgment—but there’s none. Just… that steady presence that makes it feel like the world outside this curb has stopped.

“You deserve better,” he adds, more softly this time. “Not just protection from him, but someone who actually respects your time, your space, your… everything.”

"You really think that?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The skepticism is instinctive, a reflex you've built up over years of being told you're too much, or not enough.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. "I know it.”

You take a sip of your drink to hide the way your mouth wants to twist, letting the vodka burn sharp and distracting on the way down. You stare out at the streetlights, watching the traffic pass, needing to look at anything but him.

"Well," you say, letting your head loll back against the brick to look at him, your voice dipping into that familiar, jagged sarcasm you wear like armor. "Let me know when you find someone who does that, will you?”

Reid doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He just looks at you, eyes soft but intent, reading past the deflection like it’s written in a language he’s fluent in. The traffic rushes by, filling the silence between you, but he doesn’t look away.

"I know someone who’s willing to try," he says.

The air between you seems to still, the rush of traffic fading into a dull, distant roar. Your grip on the glass tightens automatically, a knee-jerk defense against something that feels dangerously like hope. You search his face for the punchline, the awkward hesitation that tells you he’s just being nice, but there isn’t any. Just that steady, calm regard, like he’s stating a fact as simple as gravity.

It’s terrifying. It’s the most genuine offer you’ve had in years, and it comes from the person you least expected to dissect the messy, jagged parts of you and still want to stick around. You force a short, skeptical breath of a laugh, trying to shove the moment back into the box labeled ' impossible' before it can crack you open. "You," you start, your voice rougher than you intended, "you realize I'm a disaster, right? That's—that’s what tonight was. That’s what I am."

Reid just shifts slightly, turning his body toward you so his knees bump yours, a deliberate, grounding point of contact. "I don't think you're a disaster," he says softly. "I think you’re a person who’s been treated like an option for too long by someone who didn't know what he had." He glances down at the drink in your hand, then back up, eyes catching the streetlight with a quiet intensity. "I know the statistics on recovery. I know it takes time to unlearn that kind of treatment. But I'm good at waiting. And I'm very patient.”

You nearly choke on your next swallow, the burn of the vodka suddenly nothing compared to the heat rushing up your neck. You pull away, shifting so you’re not pressed quite so close to his side, putting a fraction of distance between you on the concrete.

"Wow," you breathe out, shaking your head as you stare at the traffic passing on the street. "You really... you actually just cited statistics at me to try and get me to sleep with you." You turn back to him, arching a brow, letting your lip curl just enough to be sharp. "That is—that is impressively unsexy, Reid. I mean, truly.”

The words barely have time to hang in the cool night air before the regret hits you. It’s instant and sickening, washing away the cheap defense of sarcasm and leaving behind the raw ache underneath. You watch his face, expecting him to bristle, to get up, to mutter some logical comeback and leave you there on the curb to finish your drink in solitary humiliation.

But he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. He just looks at you.

He holds your gaze with that same steady, infuriating patience. He saw the twitch in your hand, the way you spiraled, and instead of calling you out on the cruelty, he just waited. Like he knows you're already punishing yourself enough for the both of you.

"I didn't mean that," you blurt out, the words rushing together in a desperate attempt to take it back. You set the glass down on the pavement beside you, your hands suddenly feeling useless and trembling. "I'm sorry. That was—that was mean. I was just... deflecting."

"I know," Reid says softly. The forgiveness is immediate, absolute, and devoid of the hesitation you’re used to receiving. “But I mean it. I know it’ll take time. I know it won’t be easy to believe. But I want to be the one who proves that you deserve more. Who actually gives it to you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, words catching in your throat. Your voice is quieter now, softer. “And if I… if I push back? Or yell? Or—”

“You will,” he says, eyes locking on yours. “I know you will. And that’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ll listen. I’ll… handle it.” His gaze doesn’t falter, doesn’t waver. It’s steady. Enough to make the rest of the night, the bar, James, and everything else fade just a little.

Your laugh is small, shaky, like a bird testing the air for flight. “You’re… insane.”

“Maybe,” he admits, corners of his mouth twitching in that crooked, infuriating smile. “Or maybe I just think you’re worth it.”

You lift your gaze, meeting his steady eyes again. There’s a pull there—something magnetic, something dangerous in the way he looks at you—but it’s not reckless. Not threatening. Safe. The kind of safety that makes your chest ache with longing you’ve barely let yourself feel.

You shift slightly, closer, more instinct than conscious thought, just enough to brush against the warmth of him. Your hand hovers near his arm, and before you know it, it’s resting lightly against his sleeve. You almost pull it away, reminding yourself of restraint, of boundaries—but the warmth of him there, steady, grounding, feels… essential.

Reid’s gaze follows your movement, patient but intent. He tilts his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to be careful with me,” he murmurs, voice low, a rasp that makes the air shiver around it.

His hand shifts subtly, brushing against yours, fingers threading just slightly, testing.

“Do you…?” Your voice trembles, small and unsure, carrying the question you can’t quite form. “Do you… want this?”

“I want whatever you want,” he says simply. “I want you. But only if you want me too.”

That’s enough to tip the fragile line you’ve been teetering on. Impulsively, hesitantly, you reach up, tracing the edge of his jaw with your fingertips, memorizing the planes of his face, the way his skin is warm beneath your touch. He leans slightly into the gesture, breath hitching just enough to tell you he notices, that he feels it.

The world narrows. Just you. Just him. The faint buzz of the city, the distant headlights, the cold concrete pressing against your legs—they all fall away until there’s nothing but the hum of possibility between you.

Your lips hover near his, and you freeze, heart hammering. You’re not sure if you want this—if you want him, or just the safety, the closeness, the heat of someone who sees you and still wants you. But the thought of pulling back, of losing this chance, makes your chest ache.

He tilts his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering against your cheek. “You can stop,” he murmurs. “Or you can try.”

Something in you unravels—the careful walls, the sarcasm, the self-protective reflexes. You close the last fraction of distance, lips brushing his. Soft. Gentle. A spark, a question, a yes whispered in the language of a kiss.

Reid doesn’t hesitate. He meets it, tilting his head to deepen the contact, hand moving to cradle your face, the other brushing along your arm. Safe. Warm. Patient, but insistent enough to let you know he wants this too.

His hand is warm where it cups your face. Steady. Intentional. Not demanding—never that—but there, present, like he’s giving you something solid to hold onto while everything else inside you threatens to tilt.

You expect it to feel overwhelming. It doesn’t. It feels… quiet.

Your lips move against his again, a little more certain this time, testing the shape of it, the reality of it. And he follows—carefully, like he’s reading you even now, adjusting in real time to every shift in your breath, every slight change in pressure. There’s no rush. No taking. Just… meeting you there.

Your fingers curl slightly where they rest against his jaw, and you feel the way his breath catches—not dramatically, not exaggerated, just enough to tell you it matters. That you matter.

It does something dangerous to your chest.

You lean in a fraction more, and this time the kiss deepens—still soft, still controlled, but warmer now. Real. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek, a slow, grounding motion, like he’s reminding you that you’re here. That this is happening. That you can stop at any point and he’ll let you.

And somehow, that makes you not want to stop at all.

Your other hand shifts, sliding from his sleeve to his wrist, then up—hesitant at first, then more certain—until your fingers rest against the side of his neck. His skin is warm. Steady. You can feel his pulse there, quickening just slightly under your touch.

You like that.

The realization hits you quietly, but it lingers.

Reid exhales softly against your lips, and there’s something different in it now—something a little less restrained, a little more felt. 

“Hey…” you murmur, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Your voice is soft, a little breathless. “Walk me home?”

He blinks, just the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his features before it smooths into that steady, calm look you know so well. “Of course,” he says, the words low, sure, certain.

You stand, brushing the chill off your pants, and he falls into step beside you without hesitation. The city night feels quieter now, the hum of traffic and distant sirens softened by the rhythm of your walking. Your hand brushes his at first accidentally, then deliberately, and he doesn’t pull away—doesn’t need to. The warmth seeps through your nerves, that quiet shock that says you’re alive, that you’re wanted.

There's that look in his eyes again: steady, observant, but carrying a promise that he’ll meet you where you are. That he’ll wait, if necessary, but that he wants this, too.

Your chest tightens. The city lights stretch shadows across the sidewalk, painting him in sharp angles and soft curves. You wonder how it’s possible for someone to feel so steady and so incendiary at once.

When you reach your building, the air seems thicker, heavier with unsaid words and barely restrained energy. The lobby is empty, quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled behind the glass doors. You pause, hand brushing against the wall for something to hold on to, grounding yourself.

“You can… come up,” you murmur before your brain has time to talk you out of it. The words are uneven, hesitant, carrying all your insecurities. “If you want.”

He tilts his head, watching you carefully, reading every microexpression like he always does. “I do,” he says softly. And he follows you inside without hesitation.

You’ve done this before. Let someone follow you upstairs. Let it mean something it wasn’t supposed to.

This feels different.

The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, your footsteps echoing softly against the floor. You don’t look back, but you can feel him there. Half a step behind you. Like he’s giving you the space to stop. To turn around. To change your mind.

The key slips once in your grip before you manage to steady it, the metal clicking against the lock louder than it should be. Your pulse jumps with it. You push the door open and step inside, the familiar quiet of your apartment settling around you like something held too tightly.

For a second, you just stand there. Then, he steps in after you. The door closes with a soft click.

“You can still—” he starts, voice low, careful.

But you close the distance before he can finish.

Your hands find him first—fisting lightly in the front of his shirt, pulling him in like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t anchor him there. His breath catches, just barely, and then your lips are on his again. It’s different this time. Less careful. Less questioning.

There’s urgency in it now—something that’s been building, coiling tight all night finally snapping loose. You press closer, rising onto your toes, and he meets you immediately, hands coming up to steady your waist, your back—everywhere all at once, like he’s trying to keep up without overwhelming you.

You tug at him, guiding, half-walking, half-pulling him down the short hallway toward your room. He follows without resistance, but there’s a shift in him—something grounding, something deliberate beneath the heat.

The bedroom door bumps open. You barely register it before you’re turning back to him, hands already moving again, lips finding his jaw, his neck—anything you can reach. It’s a little messy, a little rushed, your breath uneven as it tangles with his.

And then—His hands catch yours.

“Hey—” he murmurs, voice low, breath warm where it brushes your cheek. “Hey… it’s okay.”

You blink, the moment stuttering. Your chest rises and falls too fast, your pulse still racing ahead of you, like you haven’t quite caught up to your own body yet.

“I just—” you start, but the words don’t land. You’re not even sure what you were going to say.

He doesn’t make you finish. “I know,” he says softly.

His thumbs brush lightly over your wrists where he’s still holding them, grounding, steady. Not restraining—just there.

“We can slow down,” he adds. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

The certainty in his voice disarms you in a way you’re not prepared for.

Your shoulders drop a fraction. Your breath stutters, then steadies, just a little.

“…okay,” you whisper.

The word feels fragile. New. But he treats it like something solid.

Reid’s hands loosen, giving you the space to pull away if you want—but when you don’t, when you stay right there in front of him, he lets his fingers slide more gently along your arms instead. Up. Slow. Intentional.

Like he’s learning you. Like he wants to.

His hands find the edge of your shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric where it clings to your skin. He pauses, lifting his gaze to yours, as if asking permission without a word. You nod, breath trembling.

His lips brush along your collarbone, soft and feather-light, following a trail only he seems to know exists. One hand slides up your side, fingertips pressing gently against your ribs, mapping the curve beneath the thin fabric. The warmth of him, the deliberate patience, makes your knees weaken.

“Do you… want me to?” His voice is low, rougher than usual, carrying that quiet certainty you’ve come to rely on.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, please.”

His fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and then it’s gone—lifted slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to change your mind even as it slides over your head.

He leans back in immediately, lips brushing yours, but your hands are fidgety, unsure, tangling in his shirt, pulling too hard, then too soft. Your fingers move to your pants, fumbling the button, and a tiny groan escapes you—half frustration, half embarrassment.

Reid chuckles against your lips, warm and low, the sound vibrating through you. It’s soft, not mocking, just amused, and somehow it makes you grin despite yourself. You can’t help it—a little laugh escapes between kisses, breathless and uneven.

You take a shaky breath and try again, dragging the fabric down with more determination, though you’re still clumsy, tugging at them too fast before pausing, then yanking them the rest of the way. They pool around your ankles, and you step free, kicking them aside—slightly off balance, but he catches you with a hand on your hip.

You tug him closer, heat building between you, and your hands find his, pressing them to the small of your back for a moment before slipping, guiding his fingers along the slope of your sides.

Your pulse hammers in your ears, and you can feel him stiffen slightly under your touch, a shiver running through him as you lead his hands upward to the clasp of your bra. The soft click of the hooks under your fingertips sends a jolt straight through your chest.

He pushes the straps off your shoulders, the soft fabric falling to the floor. 

The air feels cooler against your skin immediately. Sharper. You’re suddenly, acutely aware of it—of yourself.

Of him. 

You don’t give yourself time to think about it. Don’t let the hesitation creep in. Your hands are already reaching for him again, pulling him forward, chasing the warmth you just had—

“Wait,” Reid murmurs, voice low, threaded with something softer now. Something steadier.

Your breath catches, confusion flickering across your face as you look up at him.

“I—” you start, but the words falter when you see the way he’s looking at you.

Not rushed. Not hungry in that careless, consuming way you’re used to. Focused. Intent.

“I want to look at you,” he says quietly.

It lands heavier than anything else he’s said tonight.

Heat rushes up your neck instantly, blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening as your instinct is to turn away, to fold in on yourself, to hide. You almost laugh it off—almost deflect, make a joke, cover the sudden vulnerability clawing up your throat.

But his hands are still there, resting lightly at your waist.

His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t flick away to give you an out. But it’s not trapping, either. It’s patient. Open.

Like he’s asking. Like it matters.

Your fingers twitch at your sides before you force them to still. You draw in a slow breath that doesn’t quite steady you but helps enough. And then you nod.

Reid’s eyes move over you then—not in a way that feels like he’s taking something, not like he’s cataloging flaws or comparing or measuring. It’s slow. Careful. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s been given permission to see.

His thumb brushes lightly along your side, a small, absent motion that somehow keeps you grounded while his gaze lingers.

“You’re—” he starts, then stops, like he’s recalibrating, searching for the right word and discarding the wrong ones before they ever reach you.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“—you’re incredible,” he settles on, voice quieter now, like it’s something meant just for you.

Your heart skips a beat.

It shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. It’s a simple word. Easy. Overused.

But not like this. Not from him.

You swallow, gaze dropping for a second before you force yourself to look back at him, even as the heat in your cheeks refuses to fade.

Something shifts in your chest, a sudden, impatient flare that has nothing to do with words and everything to do with heat, want, the ache of waiting too long. You pull him toward you. Harder than planned. A startled breath escapes him, warm against your neck, and the sound alone makes your pulse spike again.

He stumbles slightly—both of you caught in the sudden motion—but instinctively, he catches himself. His hands land on either side of you, bracing against the bed, his chest hovering just above yours. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle tension in his arms, the deliberate strength that’s always been there but now feels dangerously immediate.

Your hands roam down his chest, fingers catching on each button as you work them open. The fabric parts beneath your touch, revealing warm skin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing just a little less even than before.

Your hands drag down his chest, fingertips tracing the subtle lines of muscle beneath warm skin, feeling the way his breath shifts under your touch—just a little deeper now, just a little less controlled.

Then back up.

Over his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms, your palms following the movement like you don’t want to lose contact for even a second. The shirt catches at his elbows before he shrugs it off completely, letting it fall somewhere behind him without looking.

Your palms trace the warmth of his chest one last time before they drift lower, brushing the waistband of his pants. A rush of heat floods your chest, anticipation curling in your stomach. You inch your hands forward, imagining the weight and warmth beneath the fabric.

He stops you with a gentle but firm grip on your wrists.

“This… isn’t about me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something deeper. “It’s about you. I want to make you feel good first.”

You swallow, heat pooling between your thighs at the deliberate weight of his words. Your hands drop, and for a moment, you let yourself just be held, just feel him.

Then his hands are moving—sliding along your ribs, over your hips, brushing over the swell of your breasts, ghosting over your nipples.

Your chest lifts instinctively under the pressure, the featherlight friction making your pulse stutter.

He leans back just slightly, eyes locking onto yours, searching, reading every flicker of reaction. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, but the way he holds your gaze is unwavering—commanding but gentle. “Or not enough. I want to know.”

You arch, pressing into him without thinking, letting the heat of anticipation spill into something more tangible. “Not… not enough,” you whisper, voice low, trembling with want.

A small, satisfied sound escapes him—almost a growl, almost a purr—and his hands move with careful precision, cupping you fully now, thumbs brushing circles over your nipples, slow, deliberate, eliciting shivers that roll down your spine. You bite back a moan, but it escapes anyway, breathless, catching in the quiet of your bedroom.

His hands slide lower along your hips again, brushing teasingly over the swell of your thighs. 

“May I?” he murmurs, voice low, husky, as his fingers brush the waistband of your underwear. You nod, barely able to speak, breath hitching in uneven gasps.

He hooks his thumbs under the edges, letting his gaze lift to yours. No hurry, or shame. Just that commanding, attentive certainty that makes your knees weak.

He slides them down your legs, inch by careful inch, letting the fabric brush your skin, teasing, slow, patient, until he can discard them with the rest of your clothes. His hands drift back up your legs, tracing the curve of your inner thighs, stopping just shy of the place that’s already slick with need. You gasp, hips tilting instinctively toward him, heart hammering.

Finally, he lowers himself, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, feather-light at first, tracing circles that leave sparks behind.

The sensation travels inward, unhurried and deliberate, nothing like the frantic, selfish encounters you’re used to. When his mouth finally reaches where you need him most, the shock of it steals the breath from your lungs. It isn't rushed or performative; it’s attentive, his tongue moving with a focused precision that feels almost academic. One hand rests firmly on your hip, anchoring you to the mattress, a grounding tether as he begins to unravel you, lick by slow, devastating lick.

Your free hand finds its way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft waves to hold him close, your hips lifting off the bed in a silent, desperate plea. He hums against you, a low, vibrating sound of approval that only sends fresh waves of pleasure rolling through your nerves, encouraging you to let go. Every flick of his tongue is a question he already knows the answer to, reading the tremor in your thighs and the broken cadence of your breath like data points on a graph, adjusting the pressure and speed until the only thing you know is the heat of his mouth and the rapidly tightening coil in your belly.

The pressure builds to a breaking point, overwhelming and sharp, and when you fall over the edge, you do so with a cry that you try to stifle against your own arm, a lifetime of conditioning making you shy away from being too loud, too much. But Spencer doesn't let you hide; he carries you through it, slowing his movements to draw out every last aftershock until you’re a trembling, boneless mess against the sheets.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his lips start a slow, deliberate ascent from your inner thigh, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin. It’s a reverence in motion, a silent worship that has your eyes fluttering closed.

The scrape of his teeth against the curve of your hip draws a sharp, hitching gasp from you, your hips bucking involuntarily. He just smiles against your skin—a dark, knowing thing—and soothes the sting with his tongue, his hands continuing their slow, grounding glide up your sides. He’s taking his time, mapping the topography of your body like he has all night, like he has a lifetime.

His mouth finds the dip of your navel, lingering there, his breath hot against your stomach. Your muscles jump and flutter under his attention, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the heat coils tighter, low and demanding. The sensations are overwhelming—every nerve ending feels raw, exposed, and terrifyingly alive.

He moves higher, tracing the line of your ribs with a devotion that feels almost holy. Your breath stutters, catching in your throat as the ghost of his breath feathers over your racing heart, the steady thump-thump-thump betraying just how undone you are. He presses a lingering kiss right over that frantic beat, as if trying to soothe the ache there with his own rhythm, his hands sliding up to bracket your waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your sides in a slow, hypnotic pattern.

He nips gently at the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder, and your head falls back against the pillow, exposing more of yourself to him in a gesture of surrender that feels foreign yet terrifyingly right. You can feel the tension in his arms where they cage you in, the tremor of restraint running through him as he takes his time, leaving a trail of fire in his wake that burns away the lingering memory of every cold, careless touch before him.

Finally, his face hovers above yours, blocking out the dim light of the room until he’s the only thing you can see. His lips are red and swollen, his breathing ragged as it mingles with yours in the scant space between you. He doesn’t kiss you immediately; he pauses, searching your eyes with that piercing, analytical gaze that sees too much, stripping away every last defense. Then he lowers his mouth to yours, slow and deliberate, and the taste on his tongue is you—salt and musk and a sharp, intoxicating proof of exactly how much he wants you.

He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath still coming in ragged, syncopated bursts. The air between your bodies feels charged, electric with the lingering static of what just happened and the mounting pressure of what’s coming next. His eyes search yours, dark and intent, stripping away any last defenses you might have thought you had.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, the words low and rough, vibrating against your lips. His hand drifts down, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you can't look away, can't hide from the weight of the question. "I need to hear you say it."

Your pulse hammers against your ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm that matches the ache settling deep in your bones. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the deflective sarcasm or the practiced diffidence you usually hide behind. Not with him. Not like this. You force yourself to meet his gaze, to let the want show plainly on your face, raw and unvarnished.

"I want you to fuck me, Spencer. Please."

The words leave your lips in a rush, jagged and desperate, stripping away the last of your composure. You expect him to hesitate, to offer you another slow, sweet reassurance, but instead, his control snaps. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat—half-groan, half-growl—and his mouth crashes into yours, searing and demanding, swallowing the gasp that rises in your throat. There’s no patience left in him now, only a starving intensity that matches your own, his hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

He shifts above you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels grounding rather than trapping. You can feel the hard, deliberate line of him against your thigh, the heat radiating through his clothes, a stark reminder of how much he’s been holding back. He makes quick work of his belt, the metal buckle clinking softly in the quiet room, followed by the hurried slide of fabric. Every movement is precise, efficient, but his hands are trembling just slightly, betraying the depth of his own need. When he finally settles back between your legs, skin against skin, the sensation is overwhelming—a perfect, frictional fit that makes your hips lift instinctively, seeking more.

He pauses for a second, tilting his head slightly as his hand drifts from your hips to brush along your lower stomach. “Do you… want me to use a condom?” His voice is low, careful, giving you the space to answer.

You let out a sharp curse, half-laugh, half-frustration. “I… I don’t have any. James always—I don’t have any.” The words stumble out, messy, just like your racing heart.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but you cut him off with a hurried shake of your head. “Just… pull out,” you murmur, voice a little breathless.

He blinks. “What?”

“Please,” you say quickly, looking up at him, heat in your cheeks, pulse hammering. “I‐if you’re okay with it.”

There’s a brief pause—a beat of hesitation—but you can feel it more than see it, that careful weighing of trust, of boundaries, of desire. Then his hands settle on your hips again, steady, grounding, as his lips brush yours in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low and certain.

He pushes forward with a torturous slowness, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you, filling you so completely it steals the air from your lungs. It’s intense—a heavy, burning pressure that borders on too much—but it’s anchored by the way he’s watching you, his jaw tight with restraint, his focus entirely on the micro-expressions crossing your face. He’s waiting for you to adjust, treating your body with the same reverence he treats your mind, giving you time to catch up to the reality of him.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, uneven sound, and instinct overrides everything else. You surge up, crashing your lips against his, needing the distraction, needing the connection. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the skin as you pull him closer, deeper, and your legs wrap around his waist, locking him in.

The movement changes everything. It breaks the careful control he was holding onto by a thread. He groans low into your mouth, a sound you feel vibrate through your chest, and his hips snap forward the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden depth drags a cry from your throat, which he swallows instantly, his kiss turning hungrier, more demanding. He doesn't withdraw; he stays there, deep and pulsing inside you, letting you feel the weight of him, the sheer reality of being this close, before he finally begins to move—no longer slow, but deep and rolling, matching the desperate rhythm of your heart.

A sharp cry tears from your throat as he sets a rhythm that obliterates your ability to think, each stroke hitting deep and precise, dragging a desperate sound from your lungs that you can’t hold back. Your body reacts instinctively, legs tightening around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders to anchor yourself as the intensity builds, threatening to pull you under. It’s overwhelming in the best way, a tide rising higher and higher with every thrust.

"I've got you," he breathes, the words ragged against your mouth, punctuated by the sharp, uneven cadence of his breath. "You're incredible—god, look at you."

He doesn't stop moving, doesn't let up, his hips snapping into yours with a focused, driving rhythm that feels relentless and careful all at once. But even in the middle of it, he finds the air to speak, his voice a low, rough hum that vibrates against your lips.

"So good," he murmurs, his forehead pressing tight against yours, the words ghosting over your mouth in between the relentless, deep thrusts that make your vision blur. "You feel so good, taking me like this. You have no idea." His voice cracks on a groan, the restraint finally splintering as he buries himself impossibly deeper, grounding you with the weight of his body and the raw honesty in his tone. "You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect."

Your fingernails dig into the sweat-slicked planes of his shoulders, holding on for dear life as the coil in your belly winds tighter, threatening to snap. Every praise feels like a brand, searing away the old, jagged memories of being too much or not enough, replacing them with the undeniable reality of how much he wants you right now. "Spencer," you gasp, his name sounding broken on your tongue, and he captures the sound with a searing kiss, swallowing your cries like they're something precious.

"I know, I know," he soothes, though his hips are losing their rhythm, becoming erratic, urgent. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to make you see stars, his hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you steady for the force of his thrusts. "Let go for me. I've got you, always." He presses his lips to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, worshiping every inch of skin he can reach. "Come on, baby. I want to feel you."

Your body arches off the mattress, seeking more of him, more of this grounding, overwhelming connection, and when the release crashes over you, it blinds out everything else. It’s a blinding whiteout of sensation, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of him inside you, the weight of his body pressing yours into the mattress, and the sound of your own cry echoing in the quiet room. You clamp around him, your inner muscles fluttering and gripping as the pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and gasping in his arms, your fingers still digging desperately into his shoulders.

The way you tighten around him tears a ragged groan from his throat, his control finally shattering completely. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing turning harsh and uneven against your sweat-dampened skin. "That's it," he chokes out, the words strained and low, vibrating against your collarbone. "You're beautiful—so beautiful like this." He chases his own high then, his movements becoming jagged and desperate, thrusting deeper, harder, his grip on your hip almost bruising as he lets himself go.

You can feel the tension in every muscle of his back, the way his movements are becoming less calculated, more desperate, driven by pure instinct. He’s right there with you, hovering on that precipice, and for a second, you think he’s going to let go completely.

But then his rhythm stutters. He gasps sharply against your skin, and with a herculean effort that seems to cost him everything, he tears himself away.

The sudden loss of contact leaves you feeling empty, cold for a fleeting second, but he doesn't go far.

He moves his hand, but before his fingers can close around himself, your hand is there, brushing his aside.

He lets out a shattered gasp, his eyes flying open to find yours, dark and wide with surprise. The heat of him is heavy in your palm, slick and desperate, and you don't hesitate. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking firmly from base to tip, taking over the rhythm he had denied himself.

"God—" The word breaks apart on a groan, his head falling back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. His jaw goes slack, his lips parting on a silent exhale that turns into a low, guttural sound of pure surrender. He’s powerless to stop it, the tension in his body snapping like a wire drawn too tight.

The pleasure overtakes him in a rush, and with a guttural moan that sounds almost like relief, he spills hot and wet across your stomach. You don't stop; your grip stays firm and sure, thumb brushing over the sensitive head as you stroke him through every pulse, intent on wringing every last bit of pleasure from him. He shudders violently above you, his whole body bowing under the intensity, his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of your head to keep from crushing you as he rides out the aftershocks.

As the tremors finally begin to subside, the frantic energy leaves him, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. His arms give out, and he lowers himself carefully, mostly collapsing onto you but catching his weight on his elbows to keep from smearing the mess between you any further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, cooling gusts against your overheated skin, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs that gradually begins to slow.

You let your hand release him, fingers drifting instead to the hair at the nape of his neck, combing through the damp strands in a slow, soothing cadence. The room is quiet now, save for the shared sound of your breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

He presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your jaw, seemingly unwilling to break the connection just yet, content to simply exist in the warm, heavy aftermath of it all.

But eventually, he shifts, pressing one last lingering, soft kiss to your forehead, and pushes himself up. The mattress dips and lifts as he climbs out, the cool air of the room rushing in to fill the space he left behind.

You watch him, your body still thrumming, muscles heavy and liquid, but your mind instinctively bracing for the shift.

This is the part where the silence gets awkward. This is the part where he finds his shirt on the floor, pulls it on, and mutters something about an early morning or a meeting.

But he doesn’t even glance at his clothes. He turns, padding silently toward the bathroom in his bare feet, disappearing into the slice of light spilling from the open door.

The water runs for a moment—the sound jarringly domestic in the quiet apartment—before cutting off.

You blink, staring up at the ceiling, your heart rate settling into something resembling normalcy even as your brain struggles to catalog this deviation from the script. You’re still bracing for the sound of a zipper, for the click of a belt buckle, but instead, you hear the soft tread of his return.

Spencer comes back into the dim light of the bedroom, a damp washcloth in his hand. He isn’t dressing. He isn’t rushing. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the dip in the springs shifting you slightly toward him, and reaches out with a gentle hesitance, waiting for a flinch that doesn’t come.

When he touches the warm cloth to your stomach, the heat is shocking—not painful, but incredibly grounding, chasing away the chill of the drying air and the sudden, hollow fear that you were just a convenience.

He wipes the skin with meticulous care, his eyes focused on the task as if it’s a delicate procedure requiring his full attention. There’s nothing perfunctory about it; he cleans you up with the same steady reverence he explored you with, drying your skin with the corner of the cloth before tossing it onto the nightstand.

He leans in then, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips—soft, unhurried things—and then he simply pulls the quilt up over you, his hand lingering on the sheet as he looks down at you, making it clear that for tonight, at least, he isn't going anywhere.

The silence stretches, comfortable but fragile, and suddenly the vulnerability of the moment feels heavier than the pleasure did. You feel a ridiculous lump forming in your throat, a shy, terrifying question sitting on the tip of your tongue. It’s just asking him to stay, but it feels like asking for everything.

"Will you..." You start, then stop to clear your throat, your voice barely above a whisper. "Will you lay with me?"

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t look for an excuse or a clock. He just turns those soft, serious eyes on you, his expression softening into something so open it makes your chest ache.

"Of course," he answers immediately, as if it were the only logical conclusion, the only option worth considering. He shifts, sliding under the quilt with an easy grace, and the mattress dips under his weight as he settles in behind you. There’s no fumbling for space, no awkward negotiation of limbs; he fits against you like he was always meant to be there, his chest pressing flush against your back. The heat of him is immediate and grounding, seeping through your skin and chasing away the last of the lingering chill.

He reaches out, gathering you up with a gentle, insistent tug, pulling you back until you are completely cocooned in his embrace. One arm slides beneath your pillow, cradling your head, while the other drapes over your waist, his hand splaying wide across your stomach to hold you close. You can feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against your spine, a slow, hypnotic cadence that anchors you in the present moment and makes it impossible to spiral into your usual doubts. 

You let your body relax into his, melting against the solid length of him, and for the first time in a long time, your mind goes quiet. The insecurities, the voice that whispers that you’re too much or not enough, the habitual shrinking you do to make room for others—it all fades into the background, silenced by the undeniable reality of him holding you.

Spencer presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there with a reverence that feels like a seal, a promise that you don't have to be anything but exactly who you are right here. Safe, wanted, and held.

He had always hoped he would, but Spencer was never one to push. Of course he’d always told his son stories, bought him books about the planets and pyjamas with little cartoon stars on them, but he had always vowed to never try and mould his son’s interests into his own. He would nourish whatever passion his wonderful little brain pursued. But when that passion just happened to be space? Spencer was all in.

There were regular planetarium trips, ones that had him counting down the days to his next sabbatical that was marked with a tiny gold star on his son’s planet-of-the-month calendar. There was a tent in the basement that came out to the garden during warm summer nights, an observatory all their own where they lay beneath the stars and told each other stories until the littler of the two fell asleep. He was then carried to bed, where his moon-shaped night light watched over him until the sun came up and took over.

That was how you had ended up like this. The three of you somehow crammed into a small little-boy-sized bed as you gazed up in wonder at the ceiling. Little pockets of light reflected in your son’s glasses as he hugged his plush alien toy to his chest, your husband’s warm voice filtering out into the darkness as if he were narrating one of his old space documentaries.

“And this one,” Spencer spoke lowly, pointing up at a cluster of glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling, “is the Ursa Major. Also known as The Great Bear.”

“The Big Dipper.” You chimed in, earning a soft chuckle from him.

“Exactly.” He gave the little boy between you and light, loving nudge. “Your Mommy is so smart.”

“It’s one of the original 48 constellations listed by Ptolemy. Placed in the sky by Zeus after Callisto was turned into a bear. And over here,” he paused, your son’s wide eyes following his finger as it drifted along the stars to an almost identical, but smaller, constellation, “the Ursa Minor.”

“The Little Dipper.” Your son’s sleepy voice sounded. It was his favourite constellation, the one whose pages were dog-eared in every book about the stars that he owned.

“Good memory.” Spencer murmured proudly.

“And what can you tell us about this one, Professor?” With a smile you turned your head on the pillow, just in time to catch a glimpse of the dimple on his cheek as he chuckled.

“Arcas. Callisto’s son. Also transformed into a bear and placed in the sky by Zeus for protection.” He shifted slightly as his own son nuzzled further into his side, smiling to himself as a head of messy curls found his chest. “The Little Dipper is also the constellation that contains Polaris, the guiding star.” Spencer trailed off, pausing to press a kiss to the crown of his son’s head. “As long as he’s there, you’ll always find your way back home.”

A serene silence stretched out before you as the three of you gazed up at the make-shift sky shimmering above you. It had started a few days ago. Your son had been complaining that the stars had been ‘hiding’ from him, a streak of bad weather making it impossible to spot them amongst the dark clouds that seemed to be lingering over your house. Like a man on a mission Spencer had raced to the nearest toy store the moment your son had been dropped off at school, loading his arms with packets upon packets of little plastic stars without so much as a second thought. You had wondered into his bedroom with an armful of laundry to put away and found Spencer precariously balancing atop a stepladder, tongue poking out in deep concentration as he carefully stuck each star down with robotic precision. When you stepped closer, you recognised the familiar shape of Orion’s Belt beneath his fingertips.

“Oh wow,” you breathed with a small grin, “you know, most people just stick them down wherever.”

“His favourite part is pointing out the constellations.” He answered without missing a beat, sticking down the third star in the belt. “I want it to be as accurate as possible. Of course I can’t fit all 88 up here but these are all the ones we usually see from our house this time of year.”

“This time of year?” You repeated as Spencer stepped down, putting his hands to his hips as he looked over his work. “Are you planning to change them all over later?”

“Of course.” He nodded immediately, before turning to you with a furrowed brow. “Why, do you think it’s too much?”

You padded up beside him, slipping your hand into his and giving it a squeeze. “He’s going to love it.”

And so every night passed just like this. With your son nestled between you, his alien tucked tight in his arms as he listened to his dad tell him stories he’d already told him a dozen times before and yet the magic never ceased. Every night it was as if the stars came to life, jumping from the ceiling and conjuring tales of mythology before his eyes until he eventually drifted off to the sound of Spencer’s voice, a lullaby that followed him into his dreams.

“Tell me that one, Daddy.” His little voice whispered, his baggy pyjama sleeve falling down his wrist as he jabbed a finger up at the ceiling. Spencer followed it to two constellations side by side.

“Oh,” Spencer breathed, tugging him impossibly closer as he whirled his head towards you. “Perseus and Andromeda. Two of my favourites.”

Time passed simultaneously all at once and not at all. It felt like the world had frozen still as you lost yourself in his stories, in your son’s mesmerised gasps that slowly got softer and softer until he was teetering on the edge of dreamland. Before you knew it your eyelids were beginning to grow heavy too.

“I think it’s about time we said goodnight to the stars, what do you think?” You murmured eventually, propping yourself up on your elbows to keep yourself awake.

“Just one more, Daddy.” Your son whined, tilting his tired head up at his father with big, round eyes that matched his own. “Please?”

Spencer dropped an apologetic kiss to his forehead, gently brushing his soft curls back with his hand. “You need your sleep, sweetheart.”

Your son let out a quiet whimper, sparing a longing look at the stars shining over him. Beside you, you could practically hear your husband’s thoughts as he fought the urge to give in, mentally calculating how fast he could get through each and every tale until your son was satisfied.

“They’ll still be there when you wake up.” You cooed, slowly rising to your feet and pulling his planet-themed bedsheets back for him to snuggle into. “They’re not going anywhere. I promise.”

He nodded hesitantly, barely pulling his eyes away from the ceiling as you pulled his blankets up over him until you were lifting his glasses from his face, carefully folding them and placing them beside the moon still glowing on his nightstand. His eyelids were drooping finally, his small body sinking into his pillows at long last when a quiet peeling sound from above interrupted the silence.

You turned just in time to see Betelgeuse fall from Orion, a quick flash of yellow that tumbled to the ground with a sound no greater than a pin dropping, but to your son it may as well have been a cut tree crashing down with a thunderous roar. In an instant his eyes shot open, tracking the faint glow as it landed on the floor. His bottom lip trembled, threatening to jut out in a tearful pout, but Spencer was quicker.

“A shooting star.” He gasped, full of awe and wonder and everything that reminded you exactly why you loved him. “How lucky are we?”

“Woah…” The little boy mused, sinking back into his bed, his grip on his alien loosening as dreamland crept up on him once again.

“You know what that means?” Spencer whispered, flicking off the nightlight so that all that remained was the hazy, warm glow of the stars.

“Close your eyes.” You instructed softly, and your son followed.

Spencer knelt down beside him, heart swelling at his peaceful face as his breathing soon evened. He pressed a final kiss to his head before retrieving the fallen star, clasping it tight in his hand. “Make a wish.”

You stare at them. “Funny, I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

Emily, leaning against the edge of a neighboring desk with her arms folded, lifts one shoulder. “That’s because we didn’t ask. We’re telling.”

You grimace and lean back in your chair. “I just got through my first week back, you guys. I’m exhausted.”

Garcia softens. “Exactly. You got through your first week back! We need to celebrate, honey.”

You glance over toward Spencer on instinct, and he’s already looking at you. Garcia follows your line of sight and lights up.

“Oh, good idea. Reid! Tell your girlfriend she should come with us.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t you dare.”

Spencer, who should most definitely understand the danger he’s in, simply pushes back from his desk and says, very calmly, “I think you should go.”

You blink at him, utterly betrayed. “Et tu, Reid?”

Morgan lets out a bark of laughter from across the room. Emily actually smiles. Garcia clutches her chest.

Spencer, to his credit, has the decency to look a little apologetic. “You made it through your first week back,” he says. “You should celebrate.”

Emily nods toward him like he’s finally said something useful. “See? Even Boy Wonder thinks you need a drink.”

“And fries,” Garcia adds. “And female companionship. And a chance to talk about something other than work or the deeply haunting state of Reid’s current hairstyle.”

You drag a hand down your face. “Why are you all like this?”

“Because,” JJ says, “you’re our friend, and you’re back, and we want to hang out with you.”

Garcia nods emphatically. “Exactly. You survived a gunshot, surgery, physical therapy, what I can only assume is the world’s clingiest boyfriend, and your first week back on the job. You can survive one night of dive bar drinks with the hottest women the FBI has to offer. Women who happen to adore you, I might add.”

You blink at her. “This is emotional terrorism,” you say with a deep sigh.

Garcia beams. “So that’s a yes!”

“It’s not a—” You stop. Exhale. “Fine. One drink.”

JJ smiles immediately. Emily looks pleased in the most annoying way possible. Garcia claps once like a Disney villain.

Emily reaches over and grabs your bag off the floor before you can change your mind. “Great. Let’s go, ladies, before Greenaway remembers she has free will.”

You stand with a huff that’s mostly for show and shrug into your jacket. Spencer is already there by the time you straighten, close enough that nobody else would clock the way his hand brushes your elbow.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“No, Brutus.” You give him a look. “You betrayed me.”

Spencer’s expression stays impressively neutral. “I encouraged healthy socialization.”

“You sold me out to a hostile coalition.”

He chuckles softly. “I’ll come pick you up later,” he says. “Whenever you want to leave.”

You glance up at him. “I can just take a cab home, Spence. You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to,” he says. “I want to.”

Garcia is already halfway out of the bullpen. “Greenaway! Move your brooding little booty. We’re leaving.”

You roll your eyes and sling your bag over your shoulder.

Spencer catches your wrist for one brief second, just enough to turn you back toward him.

“Have fun,” he says softly.

Then, before you can say something sarcastic and ruin it, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to your temple.

He steps back like he didn’t just do that in the middle of the office, and you stare at him. 

“What?” he asks.

Morgan passes behind Spencer and lets out a low, entertained whistle.

“Shut up, Morgan,” you and Spencer shout at the same time, still looking at each other.

Morgan just grins wider and keeps walking.

Spencer nods toward the door. “Go. I’ll see you later.”

Emily appears at your side and pushes you out of the bullpen and toward the elevators with an arm around your shoulder. “That was disgusting.”

Garcia grins. “No, it was adorable. Big difference.”

JJ presses the down button and smirks. “I’m suddenly much more interested in our topics of conversation this evening.”

The elevator opens with a ding, and Garcia ushers everyone in with entirely too much enthusiasm. You step in last, turning just in time to catch one more glimpse of Spencer standing by the bullpen doors, hands in his pockets, watching you leave with that soft, wrecked look he never quite manages to hide anymore.

—

The familiarity of O’Keefe’s hits you all at once the second you push through the door.

Warmth. Noise. The sticky smell of beer and fried food. The hum of conversation layered over a game playing on one of the TVs in the corner and music from the jukebox near the bar.

“Oh, thank god,” Garcia sighs, pressing one hand dramatically to her chest as she leads the group towards a booth in the back. “A room full of alcohol and bad decisions. I’m home.”

You exhale through your nose at that and sit down, accepting your fate for the evening.

“Okay,” Garcia says, clapping once as the waitress appears. “We need mozzarella sticks, fries, and something colorful with lots of tequila in it.”

Emily glances at the drink menu. “No tequila for me tonight. Jack and coke, please.”

JJ laughs and hands the menus back in a neat stack. “I’ll just take a beer.”

You look down at your own menu without really reading it. “Whiskey, on the rocks.”

Garcia hands over the menus with a satisfied sigh. “Perfect. We’re off to an excellent start.”

Emily glances at you. “You still have time to fake a migraine and leave, you know.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

The drinks come, and feel your shoulders unclench by accident after your first sip.

You realize this feeling is another thing nobody tells you about getting injured badly enough to disrupt the whole architecture of your life. Everyone focuses on the obvious parts — surgeries, scars, whether you’ll be okay, whether you’ll be normal, whatever that means. What no one really prepares you for is how strange it feels to start participating in your own life again once the worst of it is over. How bizarre it is to sit in a bar on a Friday night, in jeans and boots and lipstick with your girlfriends around a wooden table, and realize the world kept spinning while you were busy focusing on surviving.

There’s also the more humiliating part, which is that you haven’t done this in what feels like forever. Drinking, or hanging out with friends, or just simply sitting still and talking and existing without a doctor asking whether your pain is sharp or dull or a man you love watching your face too closely every time you stand up. The whole thing feels weirdly high stakes for something as stupid and simple as greasy fries and cheap liquor.

Garcia raises her glass. “To Greenaway,” she says, voice softening in a way that makes you self-conscious, “being back at work and a semi-willing participant in girls’ night.”

Emily lifts her glass. “A triumph.”

JJ’s smile is warm when she reaches in with hers too. “To Greenaway.”

You look at all three of them over the rim of your glass. “This is disgusting,” you mutter, which is about as close to thank you as you’re willing to get.

You let your glass clink against theirs anyway.

For a while, the conversation behaves itself. Garcia launches into a story about a disastrous blind date with a man who described himself as “alpha-adjacent,” which makes Emily nearly choke on her drink. JJ talks about Henry’s current refusal to sleep unless one sock is missing, which Garcia insists is “actually very chic of him.” After a waitress drops off the fries and mozzarella sticks, Emily tells a story about a truly alarming hostel she once stayed at in Prague, and before you know it, you’re contributing your own horror story about a motel in Kansas that smelled like mildew and bad choices.

Penelope points at you with a fry. “See? This is nice. You’re socializing,” to which you roll your eyes in response.

By the time you’re halfway through your second whiskey, the room feels warmer, the edges softened just enough that you stop noticing how many people are around you and start noticing smaller things instead. The exact shade of Emily’s lipstick. The glitter worked into Garcia’s eyeliner. The way JJ laughs with her whole face when she actually lets herself. The fact that you’re here at all.

You’re halfway through a story about the world’s most idiotic suspect trying to outrun Morgan during a case in Vermont last year when your phone buzzes against the table.

You look down, and Spencer’s name glows up at you from the screen alongside a text preview:

How’s it going? I hope you’re having fun.

Your mouth twitches before you can stop it.

Emily clocks it instantly. “There it is.”

You look up. “There what is?”

“Your face,” Garcia says, delighted. “You have a face!”

You cock a brow suspiciously. “Everyone has a face, Penelope.”

Emily leans back, arms folded. “No, she means your Spencer face.”

You stare at them. “My what.”

“Your Spencer face! You get this, like, very specific look on your face when you talk to him, or hear other people talking about him, or anytime you even think about him. Sorta smug, sorta soft, very in love. It’s adorable,” Garcia explains.

You pick up your phone and groan, “I hate all of you,” before typing back under the table:

i’m… surviving. no rescue required yet but it’s minute-by-minute

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Glad to hear it. Love you.

“It’s undeniable,” Garcia says, catching your expression. “That is, without a doubt, your Spencer face.”

You slide your phone face-down onto the table. “Say that one more time and I’m leaving.”

Garcia leans both elbows on the table and gives you a look that’s far too bright to be trustworthy. “Okay. So. Since Reid has officially entered the chat—”

“No.”

“—we have questions.”

“Absolutely not.”

Emily lifts a shoulder. “You had to have known this was coming.”

Well, she has a point there.

Garcia starts firing off questions immediately. “How clingy is he? Are you moving in together? Who fell first? Who said I love you first? Did he cry when you said it? Did you cry? Was there background music? Candles? Rose petals? Should I be offended that I wasn’t invited as a witness?”

JJ snorts into her beer.

You put your glass down carefully. “You all need professional help.”

“Don’t worry, I have a therapist on speed dial,” Garcia says. “What I don’t have is information.”

Emily tilts her head. “C’mon, Greenaway. You can’t really expect us not to be curious about our two coworkers who are dating.”

The thing is, they’re not wrong to be curious. The Spencer they know isn’t the same Spencer you know. They know the version of Spencer with brains and facts and a perpetually crooked tie, the one who hides half his personality behind statistics and awkwardness until people make the mistake of thinking that’s all there is to him. But you, by some impossible stroke of luck or an undeserved & pre-determined string of fate, have been granted the privilege of knowing there’s so much more. And somewhere along the line, without asking permission, he stopped feeling like a part of your life and started feeling like the shape of it.

Maybe that’s why this line of questioning makes your skin feel too tight — because they aren’t asking about a silly little coworker crush like they had been at that margarita night Garcia hosted many months ago. Now they’re asking about your actual life. About something real enough that if you look at it directly for too long, the brightness and warmth nearly blinds you.

“You gave him a key to your place, didn’t you?” JJ asks, breaking you out of your trance.

The table goes quiet for half a second.

You look at her. “Who told you that?”

JJ shrugs. “No one had to. When he first came back to work after you got shot, he was so worried about leaving you alone all day, so I went with him to check on you at lunchtime. He let himself into your apartment with a key on his usual keyring, and he looked very comfortable doing it.”

You look down at your drink. “You people are so invasive.”

Garcia points at you triumphantly. “Aha! That’s not a denial!”

You take a long sip of whiskey that does absolutely nothing to save you.

“It was… practical,” you say, which immediately sounds like a lie, even to you. “I gave it to him when I was still stuck at the hospital so he could bring me things from my place. Then he didn’t want me to be alone while I was recovering, and…” You lift one shoulder. “He still has the key.”

Emily’s mouth curves. “Very practical.”

“Shut up.”

“So,” Emily says. “How serious is this thing, really?”

You could dodge. You should dodge. You should say something glib and slippery and let them all chase their own tails around it.

Instead, because your second glass of whiskey is now treacherously empty and because these women have somehow figured out how to disarm you with minimal effort, you hear yourself say, “Um. I guess it’s… pretty serious. Yeah.”

Garcia actually slaps a hand over her heart. “Define pretty, please. Pretty pretty please!”

“God, I don’t know, you guys,” you say with an exasperated sigh. “Serious enough that, yeah, he has a key to my apartment. Enough that I can’t remember the last time I spent more than, like, four hours without talking to him, outside of when we’re asleep. Enough that everyone in this room is apparently allowed to bully me about him.”

JJ leans forward slightly. “Do you see a future with him?”

You look at her, then at the table, then at your empty glass. The honest answer rises before you can kill it.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Garcia goes so still you’d think someone muted her with a remote. Emily’s brows lift. JJ just watches you.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not, like, a problem-problem. Not in a bad way. Just… I think he got serious about it before I realized I was letting him get serious, and then I was already in it too, apparently, before I’d even noticed that was happening, and then one day I looked up and he was just…” You stop, irritated by the catch in your own voice. “Everywhere. In every corner of my life.”

You swirl your glass against the table and stare at the condensation gathered on the rim, trying very hard not to think about how exposed you feel right now.

Then, because the alcohol has successfully eliminated your usual filters, you add, “He’s annoyingly good at staying, through pretty much anything. And… I think he’s teaching me how to be good at staying too.”

Garcia makes a strangled noise and beams at you.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “You are in love-love.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not exactly breaking news.”

“It’s not,” JJ says gently. “Anyone with eyes can see it nowadays. But it’s still nice to hear you say it out loud.”

You stare at her — at all of them, really: Garcia glowing with vindication and affection, Emily pretending not to be touched, JJ looking so proud it hurts, and another thought arrives uninvited: they love you too. Not in the way Spencer does, obviously — not in the all-consuming, low-voiced, hand-at-your-waist way. But still, in a real way, in a way you don’t think you’ve ever been loved by friends before. In the show-up, drag-you-out, celebrate-your-first-week-back, make-fun-of-you-until-you-stop-deflecting way.

You laugh despite yourself, because what else are you supposed to do with this? These women, this bar, this absurd line of questioning, this life that somehow expanded around you while you were busy trying not to die?

Garcia pulls your focus back to the conversation at hand. “Now I need to know if he’s actually romantic or if this is all just the natural result of extreme pining and good bone structure.”

You bark out a laugh. “Good bone structure?”

“He has, like, a tragic poet jawline, Greenaway. You’ve obviously noticed that.”

You shake your head and reach for another fry. “Yes. Fine. He can be romantic,” you admit.

Garcia leans so far across the table you’re worried she’s about to fall into the mozzarella sticks. “In what way?”

You hesitate, because how do you explain Spencer as a boyfriend? How do you explain that privately he’s still Spencer, still dorky and earnest and too smart for his own good, but also softer than anyone would guess, and sharper too? That he remembers everything you say and acts like that’s normal? That he takes every tiny thing he knows about you into consideration before planning dates? That even the physical things with him somehow feel impossibly specific, like he’s learned your body with the same frightening thoroughness he learns everything else? That he can be so maddeningly practical one second and then look at you like you’ve just hung the moon in the sky with your bare hands the next?

Eventually, you say: “He notices things.”

Emily’s expression shifts first, like she gets exactly how loaded that answer is.

Garcia, predictably, wants more. “Such as?”

“Everything,” you say. “If I’m cold. If I’m tired. If I’m trying to pretend I’m not either of those things. He remembers stupid little things I say and then acts on them weeks later like that’s normal behavior. Like, last week, he bought me this ridiculously expensive brand of coffee beans from a cafe on the other side of the city because I mentioned them once in passing. He keeps my favorite pens stocked at his desk and in his bag because he knows I chew on mine until they stop working.”

JJ’s smile turns genuinely soft. “That’s… really sweet.”

You grimace. “Yeah, well. Don’t encourage him. I can’t handle much more of it and still keep my dignity intact.”

Emily props her chin on her hand. “How bad?”

You look at her. “What does that mean.”

“On a scale from one to ten, how embarrassing is he as a boyfriend?” she asks with a shrug.

“Honestly?” you say. “Pretty bad.”

Garcia crows in triumph. “I knew it.”

You look away. “I mean, I’m sorta embarrassing too.”

That catches all three of them off guard. You feel your face warm and immediately regret opening your mouth. But it’s too late now, so you plow forward.

“I miss him when he’s in the next room,” you mumble. “Which is humiliating and codependent and probably very concerning.”

JJ gives you a look that is somehow both sympathetic and deeply entertained. “That doesn’t sound concerning. It sounds sweet.”

Garcia puts both hands over her heart. “You are so disgustingly gone. I love it.”

You lean back in the booth and look up at the ceiling like maybe some god out there in the universe will mercifully strike you down before this gets any worse.

The strike never comes.

—

At some point after their humiliating interrogation, the conversation drifted. Garcia got louder. JJ got funnier. Emily, somehow, got both meaner and more affectionate at the same time. Somebody put more money in the jukebox. A second basket of fries appeared and disappeared. Then another round showed up, and then maybe another one after that, and after a while, keeping count lost its appeal.

Garcia made a passionate argument about who from the BAU would last the longest in a zombie apocalypse (“Survival isn’t just about brute strength! It’s also about adaptability and vibes!”). JJ reached that dangerous stage of tipsy where everything struck her as deeply, genuinely hilarious, including your comparison between Rossi in reading glasses and the Tootsie Pop owl. Emily had one elbow on the table, chin in hand, and the sort of lazy, amused smile that meant she was enjoying everybody else’s nonsense immensely.

The whole room has gone pleasantly soft around the edges. Warmer. Louder. The lights above the bar blur into dull gold halos. Every time Garcia laughs, it seemed to set off the whole table half a second later. Your own body has gotten looser too, the good kind of loose — shoulders unclenched, thoughts less guarded, the usual sharp corners of you sanded down just enough.

But beneath all of it, quiet and constant, is the simple thought that if you asked, Spencer would come pick you up in a heartbeat.

You didn’t realize how much you were counting on that until the room tips one degree too warm and the thought of trying to get yourself home without him suddenly felt both very impossible and completely undesirable.

So you text him.

come get me?

And, because he’s Spencer, his reply comes almost immediately.

You got it. On my way.

The fuzziness only intensifies after that, but you’re at least mostly aware of what’s happening around you. Garcia has somehow moved on from zombies to explaining why she could absolutely win a bar fight if motivated by love. JJ is smiling into the rim of her drink. Emily has abandoned subtlety entirely and is now openly enjoying your slow descent into drunken sentimentality, which is rude but expected.

Then O’Keefe’s front door opens, and there he is.

Spencer pauses just inside the bar for half a second, scanning the room. His shoulders ease the second he spots you, that familiar little drop in tension so slight most people would miss it. You don’t. You never do.

He makes his way over, tie gone, coat on, hair a little wind-mussed from the cold outside. He looks tired in that way only he can: wrung out around the eyes but still put together, still handsome even under shitty bar lighting and the accumulated weight of a work week.

He stops beside the table and waves awkwardly to the entire group.

“Hello,” he says.

You tip your face up, far too happy to see him for someone with any pride left. “Hi, baby.”

The entire table goes silent.

Spencer’s brows lift the tiniest amount. Then his mouth softens into that look — that one that always makes your pulse jump.

“Hi,” he says softly, just to you.

Garcia clamps both hands over her mouth. Emily looks delighted. JJ’s expression has gone so calm it circles back around to dangerous.

You point a finger at all three of them. “Don’t.”

“No one said anything,” JJ says, holding both hands up defensively.

Garcia lowers hers from her mouth just enough to whisper, “Yet.”

Spencer, because he is either merciful or trying very hard to be, just asks, “You okay?”

You nod a little too emphatically. “M’great.”

Emily deadpans, “She’s drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” you say, while reaching for Spencer’s hand and missing on the first attempt. “I’m just… friendlier than usual.”

Spencer takes your hand himself and laces your fingers together before you can fumble again. “Of course.”

He says it so gently that it almost makes you emotional, which is very much not helping the situation.

Garcia, meanwhile, has given up all restraint. “She told us things.”

“Penelope,” you warn.

Spencer’s gaze flicks from her to you, faintly alarmed now in the way of a man who knows there are degrees of terror in your mind and that drunken honesty ranks highly among them. “Things like…?”

Emily takes pity on him, sort of. “Nothing classified.”

JJ sets her glass down. “We mostly just confirmed what we already suspected.”

Spencer, still holding your hand, blinks once. “Which is?”

Garcia leans in, beaming. “That you’re absolutely, totally, completely obsessed with each other.”

You look at the tabletop. The wood grain is suddenly fascinating.

“Ah,” he replies with a soft chuckle.

JJ hands you your purse from where you abandoned it at the opposite end of the booth. “Text us tomorrow so we know you’re alive.”

Garcia points at Spencer. “Take care of her, loverboy.”

He nods. “Always.”

You wish, briefly, for the floor to open up and swallow you whole. But instead, Spencer helps you stand with such absurd care it’s almost offensive. His hand settles lightly at your waist as he steers you through the bar, and your body goes willingly.

—

The night air outside is cold enough to bite.

It hits your face sharply but clears none of the pleasant fuzz in your head. The city glows around you in smeared headlights and neon and streetlamp glow, and Spencer guides you toward the curb where his car’s parked, one hand still warm at your back.

He opens the passenger door and looks at you with that quiet, attentive expression that makes you feel both cherished and mildly threatened.

“You good?” he asks.

You lean against the car and squint at him. “They interrogated me.”

Spencer’s mouth twitches. “That does sound like them.”

You point at him. “It’s all your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You made me go!”

He waits while you lower yourself into the passenger seat and leans in just enough to buckle you, and the whole thing is so stupidly sweet that you have to look away and pretend the dashboard is wildly interesting. He closes the door once you’re settled and walks around to the driver’s side.

When he gets in, he glances over at you as he starts the engine. “I didn’t make you do anything. I just encouraged a night out with your friends.”

“Still Brutus,” you mutter, which is met by a low chuckle and shake of the head from Spencer.

The rest of the drive home is quiet in a good way. Spencer keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting open between you, and somewhere around the second red light you lace your fingers through his.

He looks over.

“What did they ask about?”

The questions blur together in your whiskey-soaked brain. “Everything,” you say after thinking for a moment. “They were very nosy and a little deranged.”

You turn your head to look at him properly. His profile is too familiar now — the slope of his nose, the soft concentration in his mouth, the line between his brows that shows up when he’s listening carefully.

“They asked what you’re like as a boyfriend,” you add.

Spencer glances over, faintly amused. “And?”

“And I had to say things.”

His brows lift. “Tragic.”

You nod dramatically. “Exactly. It was.”

By the time he parks outside your building and gets you upstairs, your thoughts have all softened into a single, inconvenient ache.

He helps you out of your coat, sets your purse down on the table, gets you water without asking. You sit on the edge of the bed while he moves around the room, toeing off his shoes, unbuttoning his cuffs, setting his watch on the nightstand.

He’s tired. You can see it in the slope of his shoulders and the care he’s no longer even trying to hide. He’s always gentler with you when he’s exhausted, as if all the extra effort it usually takes to conceal the full force of how much he cares has finally burned off.

You watch him longer than you mean to, and he catches you. 

“What’s up?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

Spencer’s expression shifts. He comes over and kneels in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees.

“What is it?” he asks softly.

And there it is — that awful tenderness. That exact, patient attention that always seems to make honesty feel both easier and much, much worse.

You look at him and find, with some irritation, that the words do not want to come out in anything resembling order.

“They asked…” You stop, frown, start again. “Um. They asked if this is serious.”

Spencer’s face softens so visibly it’s almost unbearable.

“Oh,” he says.

You nod, suddenly more nervous than you were in the bar, which makes no sense because it’s just him. Just Spencer, the man who has a key to your apartment and alphabetizes your spices and picks you up without hesitation and tells you he loves you at least five times a day.

But that’s exactly why it’s so nerve wracking, maybe.

You look down at the front of his shirt instead of his face. “And I told them yes.”

A beat of silence.

Then, quietly: “Okay.”

You let out a breath that sounds more annoyed than relieved. “No, see, that’s not enough.”

Spencer’s left hand moves from your knee up to your chin, guiding your face up just enough that you have to meet his eyes.

“What do you need me to say?” he asks gently.

“I—” You stop. Try again. “I don’t know. Something normal. Or not normal. Just…” You gesture vaguely between the two of you because apparently language has abandoned you. “They asked and I said yes and now I’m in my head about it because we’ve never actually said so out loud in those words, and I know that’s stupid because, like, obviously we’re serious. Duh. We say I love you. You have a key to my freaking apartment and we haven’t spent a night apart by choice in months. I know what this is. But I just—”

You stop again, mortified.

“It’s not stupid,” he says.

You swallow. “It’s not?”

“Not at all.” His thumb brushes once across your cheek. “And yes. We’re serious.”

The simplicity of it makes your throat go tight.

Spencer gives the smallest, softest little playful shrug. “I mean, think about it. You have a key to my apartment too.”

You almost laugh. It comes out sounding too close to a sigh.

Spencer watches your face for a second, then adds, quieter, “I think about it all the time, you know. How serious this is for me. How serious you are to me.” He glances down for half a second, then back up. “But I didn’t know if saying that would make you feel pressured, so I was trying very hard to let you get there however you needed to.”

Something in your chest folds in on itself.

It’s not even the serious part that gets you, not really. You already knew that. It’s the rest of it — the fact that he’s been thinking about it too; the fact that he’s been intentionally careful not to crowd you into saying something before you were ready. It’s so unfairly him that, for a second, all you can do is stare.

You look at him for a little too long, then reach for the front of his shirt and tug. He comes without resistance, mouth brushing yours, soft and warm and patient.

The kiss deepens slowly. His hand slides to your waist and yours goes into his hair, because you like the little sound it pulls from him. You slide your other hand down his chest, mouth skimming his jaw, and in your softest, most shameless voice, you ask, “Are you going to fuck me now, or do I need to make a more persuasive argument?”

Spencer closes his eyes and laughs softly against your cheek. “No, angel, I’m not.”

You blink. “Rude.”

“You’re drunk,” he reminds you softly.

“I’m also charming.”

“You are,” he agrees.

“So—”

“So no.”

You grumble. “You hate joy, Spencer Reid.”

“I love joy,” he insists. “I’m a huge fan of joy. I’m less of a fan of taking advantage of you when you’ve had too much whiskey.”

You squint at him. “What if I said ‘make love’ instead? Does that move the needle at all?”

Spencer actually breaks at that, shoulders shaking with a laugh he tries and fails to suppress.

“No,” he says, still smiling, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. “It doesn’t.”

You sigh dramatically. “This relationship is so one-sided.”

“That is an absurd statement and you know it,” he says with a laugh, and leans in again — one long, slow kiss that leaves your knees weak and your head warm. When he finally pulls back, he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip. “Try again when you’re sober. I’ll do anything you ask.”

You smirk. “Anything? That’s a very dangerous offer.”

Spencer stands, mouth twisted in an exasperated grin. “Go brush your teeth, silly girl.”

You glare. He waits. You lose and grumble dramatically as you trudge into the bathroom.

Eventually, exhaustion starts to take hold. Spencer helps you out of your clothes, hands you one of his old shirts, gets you under the blankets. He climbs in beside you after turning off the lamp, and the room goes dark around the warm shape of him.

You roll toward him instinctively, your body finding his like a puzzle piece. His arm settles around you as you lay your head on his chest and tangle your legs with his. The two of you fit together too easily now, which is still a bit alarming if you think about it for too long.

For a minute, neither of you says anything.

Then you murmur, already half gone, “You liked when I called you baby.”

Spencer’s chest rises under your cheek with a silent laugh. “Maybe a little.”

You smile into his shirt. “Knew it.”

“You’re not going to start calling me that all the time now, are you?”

“God no. You know how I feel about using pet names.” You tilt your head just enough to look at him in the dark. “But… maybe sometimes.”

Spencer’s hand slides up your back, slow and warm. “I’ll take it.”

His breathing evens out under your ear. Yours follows a second later.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers sleepily. “Love you.”

Your heart still flutters in that same embarrassing way it did the first time he said those words.

“Love you too,” you whisper back.

Tomorrow, you’ll wake up and remember enough of this to want to throw yourself violently into the Potomac. You’ll remember the bar and the interrogation and the pet name and the failed attempt at seduction and the deeply incriminating declarations of emotional seriousness.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow’s version of you. Tonight, Spencer’s body is warm against yours, his mouth is still soft from kissing you, and the awful, frightening shape of your future no longer feels quite so awful or frightening when it’s lying here breathing beside you.

Serious, you think, right before sleep pulls you under.

Yeah.

That sounds about right.

ᝰ.ᐟ

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️

One week after your arrival, you were called in on your first case: a series of homicides had occurred in Florida, and the local PD were practically begging for help. Looking back on it, it was one of the more cut-and-dry cases you’ve worked on during your time here, but it was hard to see it at the time for the headache that Spencer had caused you that weekend. 

He cut you off every time you tried to speak. Whenever you had a theory, he had something more important to say. 

And every time he spoke over you, he’d apologise. It had seemed genuine the first time, and you had continued to let it slide the second, third, and fourth time he interrupted you. You tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, you really did, but tolerance is a virtue you lack even at the best of times, and Spencer Reid seemed as though he had been put on earth just to test you. He was a broken record of rudeness and regret, always grovelling but never learning, and you couldn’t deal with it; there was no way he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

It all spiralled out of control from there. You then began interrupting him out of spite, which he didn’t take too kindly to. Of course, he got all pissy about it, and his mood had only worsened when you started insinuating that his actions were sexist, and then…he refused to speak to you for the rest of the day.

But his silence did nothing to settle the tension between the two of you, and so the cycle continued the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that…

And now it’s just routine. Spencer and you butt heads wherever you go; big cities, rural villages, it doesn’t matter. You chide, you bicker, and you ping-pong insults across every table you find yourselves at, regardless of who else is present. Chiefs of police, decorated detectives, everyone’s been made a witness to your dysfunction—if Spencer can’t keep his mouth shut, then why should you?

—

“I think it’s pretty clear that this unsub is suffering from some kind of religious psychosis; something that has caused him to believe that—”

“If that’s the case, then he skipped bible study.”

You’re sitting in a conference room slap bang in the middle of New York city. The bright sunlight peeking through the blinds is mocking you, you’re sure of it; God, what you wouldn’t give for a picnic in Central Park right about now. But, as always, the worst cases come with the best weather, and you and the team are stuck chasing an unsub killing— no, sacrificing his victims in some of the most brutal ways possible.

“Obviously,” Spencer mutters in response to your quip, “but that doesn’t negate the possibility of psychosis.”

“I’m not saying it does, but—”

“Then why are you interrupting me?”

Oh, if looks could kill…Spencer’s glares would’ve put you in the ground years ago. He’s staring daggers at you from across the table, arms crossed, lips curled in disgust like you’re the unsub and not just a coworker trying to voice a theory.

You mirror him, leaning back in your chair as you cross your arms. “Because I feel like it,” you say, shrugging.

Spencer scoffs. “And this is why I have such trouble working with you. You always—”

Biting back a smile, you turn away from him and redirect your attention to Hotch. “What’re the odds of this unsub consciously misappropriating ancient catholic rites?”

Hotch frowns at your question, but his expression reads more as intrigue than disagreement. “For what purpose?” he asks. 

“For…” you puff air into your cheeks, realising you hadn’t fully put together your theory before deciding to speak up. “I don’t know, maybe because—”

“See?” Spencer cuts you off, huffing. “She’s just contradicting for the sake of contradicting.”

“Or maybe I’m contradicting because I’m right.”

“Oh, yeah,” he sits up, nodding with enthusiasm, “you’re right. I mean, just look at all the evidence you have!” he flashes you a smile before his expression returns to that sour distaste you’ve grown used to. “We’re wasting time.”

“Sheesh,” you raise your eyebrows, smirking as you mutter, “someone didn’t have sex last night…”

Spencer freezes at your words. His face pales slightly as he stares at you, trying to keep a lid on his reaction to avoid garnering any suspicion from the team.

“…excuse me?”

“Nothing,” you turn back to Hotch and lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. “The unsub could be trying to throw us off by incorporating religion into his kills. Or there’s a chance that he was religious, and he’s now bastardising the teachings of the Old Testament as a way of…dealing with religious trauma, maybe. Whatever it is, I don’t think he’s experiencing psychosis— and I’m not just saying that to piss Reid off,” you add quickly, before he can interrupt you. “I just think this unsub is too organised to be suffering from something that is known to make people disorganised.”

On the other side of the table, Spencer is grinding his teeth.

Hotch regards you for a moment in silence, mulling over your suggestion before saying, “It’s possible.”

Suppressing a grin, you shoot a smug glance in Spencer’s direction, relishing the glare you earn in return. “Well, would you look at that?”

—

You would pay a fortune to know what was going through Hotch’s head when he sent Reid and you to assess the most recent crime scene. He should know by now that neither of you want to spend any more time together than strictly necessary, and that continuing to pair you together like this will only end in disaster. But maybe that’s why he’s doing this. Hotch makes a point to keep his personal life as drama-free as this job will allow; he probably gets a kick out of seeing his agents squabble like children—only when it doesn’t hinder the investigation, of course.

You’re standing in a shaded alleyway, trying to drown out the sounds of the media beyond the cordon as you watch the local CSI team photograph what is now the fifth murder tied to this unsub. You have to tread carefully, lest you knock over one of the dozen half-burned candles carefully placed around the scene. It’s impressive, really, that this unsub can commit such intricate crimes in broad daylight without getting caught, but that only makes it all the more infuriating.

The most infuriating thing about this situation, however, is the conversation unfolding behind you.

“Sorry, did you say three PhDs?”

Instead of profiling the scene like he’s supposed to be doing, Spencer has found himself caught in a conversation with a young, pretty police officer—not that you care about her appearance. You wouldn’t be bothered by their interaction at all if his voice weren’t so damn grating.

“Yes,” he says. You can hear that stupid smile in his voice as he speaks. “Chemistry, engineering, and mathematics.”

“He also has an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and he can read twenty thousand words per minute,” you say, glancing back at the pair over your shoulder. Spencer’s smile vanishes the moment he hears your voice and, instead, you smile at him. “What? I’m hyping you up,” turning your gaze to the officer, you add, “he’s a genius, categorically.”

She raises her eyebrows, seeming genuinely impressed. “Oh, wow.”

“Graduated high school at twelve, too,” you continue, slipping your hands into your pockets as you step closer. “Makes you wonder how that might’ve affected his psychosexual development.” You shoot him a smirk and watch as he clenches his jaw. “Still stuck in the latency phase, are we? Is that why you haven’t been able to lose your vir—”

“That’s rich coming from the woman who spends an obscene amount of time complaining about her dating life,” he counters quickly. “Maybe if you made yourself a little more palatable people might be able to stomach you.”

You shrug. “I’m palatable where it counts, and just because I don’t date doesn’t mean I’m not getting laid, Reid. Unlike someone, I have no trouble finding people to sleep with,” stepping up to him, you don your most overly sweet, mocking voice and say, “I could send you my contact list, if you’d like. I’m sure there’s gotta be some women on there who are willing to give you a chance, even if it means they have to close their eyes.”

Watching the way Spencer’s already angered expression further curdles into something closer to disgust brings you immense joy. His cheeks flush an almost painful-looking shade of red and, like a faulty car that won’t start, he begins sputtering. Choking on his retort like your words have poisoned him.

The police officer, God bless her, politely averts her gaze and turns her attention back to the crime scene. She thinks Spencer’s horror stems from the little comment you made about girls only fucking him with their eyes closed, but youknow better than that. 

Spencer stopped caring for your insults to his looks a long time ago, because he knows you don’t mean it. No, he’s reacting to the implication that you may be sleeping with other people. 

He’s jealous. Jealous of the mere idea of you having sex with anyone that isn’t him.

And by God, it’s the best thing you’ve seen all week.

—

In the end, you were right: the unsub wasn’t experiencing religious psychosis, and the team managed to track him down by scouring local church records for anybody who fitted the profile. It’s crazy how easily a case is solved when people—Reid—actually listen to you.

You return to your hotel room that night feeling lighter than air; yet again, you have managed to prove the resident genius wrong and re-established yourself as the better half of the bitchy duo, as certain members of the team have taken to calling you. So, you treat yourself to a long, hot shower, scrubbing yourself clean with complimentary hotel supplies before accidentally dropping the soft towels and miniature shampoo bottles into your go-bag.

Unfortunately, your peace does not last long. 

Spencer Reid always knocks to the same rhythm, it’s one of his oh-so-adorable quirks that never fail to irritate you. You hear it, that familiar rap of his knuckles, as you prepare to dry your hair, and there’s no doubt in your mind that he is standing on the other side of your door, no doubt armed with obnoxious complaints and petty insults. So, naturally, you ignore it.

And he knocks again. Louder, this time. You hear him call out your name.

“Busy,” you bark back before turning on the hair dryer, hoping to drown him out.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see the door handle jiggle. Lowering the hair dryer, you watch in disbelief as Spencer actually tries—and fails—to force his way into your room. You let him struggle for a few moments, hoping that maybe he’ll give up if you ignore him for long enough, but you know he won’t.

Sighing, you set the hair dryer down and crack the door open.

“I said I was busy.”

“Can you let me in?”

He has one hand on the doorframe, leaning against it as he raises his eyebrows expectantly.

You shrug. “I can, but—”

And he’s squeezing himself through the gap in the door. Great.

“Or just…come right on in, that’s fine,” you mutter, raising your hands in surrender as you step away. “Seriously, Reid, what is your problem?”

“My problem?” he hisses, shutting the door behind him. “You’re asking what my problem is? As if you haven’t made it your mission to ruin my day?”

“Is this because I was right about the case?” you scoff. “Jesus, get over it—”

“You know this has nothing to do with the case.” Crossing his arms, he steps closer until he’s right in front of you. “This is about you humiliating me in front of an officer. There was no need for such—”

“True,” you say, nodding, “you probably would’ve done it yourself, if I hadn’t. You do love making a fool of yourself—”

“Am I not enough?”

You blink at him. “…huh?”

“For you,” he says, voice firm. “Am I not enough for you?”

For once, he’s rendered you speechless, even if it’s only for a moment. Sure, you knew your little comment would get under his skin, but you weren’t expecting him to confront you about it—especially not like this. 

His question is serious. Too serious. It’s unsettling. Vulnerable, almost.

“Are you jealous?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

“Am I—” his words jam in his throat. He stammers for a moment before abruptly turning away. “I’m not doing this.”

“Wait—”

“No. I’m sick of this. We’re done. I can’t keep—”

Before he can make it to the door, you grab him by his arm and turn him back around to face you. Emotions flash across his face like strobe lights—frustration, irritation, and something you can’t place—as he stares down at you, looking as though he can’t decide whether to yell at you or kiss you.

Fortunately, he opts for the latter.

A hand slips behind your neck, pulling you into him with an urgency that never fails to surprise you, and you melt almost as soon as his lips meet yours. Your hands find his face, thumbs pressing into his flushing cheeks, and he doesn’t waste another second before pushing his tongue past your willing lips and into your mouth. 

His fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt as he backs you up against the nearest wall, using his body to cage you in. 

“I’m done,” he manages to hiss between frantic kisses. His words are as empty as they always are, spoken only for the purpose of maintaining a façade you both know to be fake.

You shake your head. “No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

With an exasperated huff, you push him away, putting an end to the kiss so you can cook up at him. 

“Leave, then,” you say, feigning indifference. “No one’s stopping you.”

He responds, as you knew he would, by latching back onto your lips, kissing you like he needs this—needs you—and you don’t dare push him away again. Your fingers work their way into his hair, losing themselves in the dark strands as easily as you lose yourself in him, and you only get to come up for air as his focus shifts from your mouth to your jaw. He peppers kisses along your skin, trailing down until he reaches that sensitive junction between your neck and shoulder. He grazes it with his teeth, and you feel that familiar twist of arousal in your gut that damn near snaps as those teeth sink into your skin, stealing a shuddering moan from your lips as you lean your head back. 

He tugs at the collar of your pyjama shirt, stretching the fabric as he continues attacking your skin with starved kisses. You can feel his erection pressing against your stomach, feel the need flowing through him as his hand wanders down, tracing your curves until his fingers find the hem of your shirt. Before he can start to undress you, your fingers curl into his hair, giving a gentle tug to encourage him to meet your gaze.

God, he’s perfect like this; brown eyes wide with need, face flushed and, above all, he’s quiet. For once, Spencer Reid does not utter a word. He just watches you, toying with the hem of your shirt as he waits for you to tell him what you want.

“…on the bed.”

And he obliges without question. Releasing your shirt, Spencer backs away from you and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. You stay leaning against the wall for a moment, watching him with a barely suppressed smirk—admiring him, if you’re being honest with yourself; Morgan doesn’t call him pretty boy for nothing. 

Taking a deep breath, you grasp the hem of your shirt and peel it off over your head, promptly abandoning it on the floor as you make your way over to him. You swear you see his pupils blow to twice their regular size as he takes in your half-naked form, wearing nothing but a thin pair of pyjama shorts, like it’s something he ought to worship.

You slow yourself between his legs, taking his face into your hands before kissing him again. His hands grab the backs of your thighs, then momentarily settle on your ass, your hips, your waist, before finally finding their place on your chest, cupping your tits. You can’t help but gasp into his mouth as he rolls a nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and he makes this smug, satisfied little noise in response. Leaning forward, you plant one hand on the mattress to steady yourself as you press your lips to his jaw, allowing your free hand to skim over the fabric of his shirt.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he whispers, breathless.

All you give him in response is a gentle hum as your fingers make quick work of his belt. 

“If the team find out—”

“Let them.”

“I’m serious.”

You unbutton his trousers, keeping your mouth on his skin as you murmur, “So am I.”

Spencer huffs. “You are so— God…”

He shudders as your hand slips past his waistband, silencing his complaints as you wrap your fingers around his cock. He presses his face to your bare shoulder in an effort to hide the way his face contorts in pleasure under your touch. 

“You want me to stop?” you tease.

You can hear him trying to keep his breathing steady, trying not to come apart in your hands as he has done time and time before. When he doesn’t answer you, you bring your lips to his ear.

“Reid.”

“No,” he mumbles quickly, shaking his head as your hand threatens to come to a standstill. “…no, don’t stop.”

You can’t stop the smirk that creeps up your face when you hear just how needy he sounds. “You like that?” you ask, keeping your voice soft and light and smug as you work his cock.

His breath catches, and he nods eagerly. “M—mhm…”

His hands drop from your chest to your waist, fingers anchoring themselves in your soft flesh as he resigns yourself to your touch…

…and then you stop. 

Raising his head, he looks almost offended as you pull your hand from his trousers. His brows furrow in a petulant frown, but whatever complaints were on the tip of his tongue vanish the moment you lower yourself onto your knees. Your fingers hook under the waistline of his slacks, asking a silent question that he answers without second thought by lifting his hips, allowing you to take them off—and his boxers, too. 

His hands settle in your still-wet hair as your press languid kisses to the sensitive insides of his thighs, and you watch through half-lidded eyes as he catches his bottom lip between his teeth. You nip at his skin, earning a choked little whimper and, as quiet of a noise as it is, you decide to run with it all the same.

“You’ll need to keep it down, okay?” you murmur. “Emily’s next door.”

“I…” Spencer’s voice trails off as he watches you spit into your palm. He averts his gaze, blinking hard as he stiffly mutters, “I always keep it down.”

“Right…” you return your hand to his cock, studying the slight twitches in his expression as he clenches his jaw. “And remind me, how did we almost get caught last time?”

“That— that wasn’t even me,” he argues, trying to fight off the slight shake in his voice to no avail. “It was you who—”

He clamps a hand over his mouth, muffling a moan as you run your tongue along the underside of his sensitive cock. You’ve barely touched him, and he’s already struggling to keep it together. It’s adorable.

Sighing, you shake your head. “What did I just say?”

Before he can try to argue with you further, you’re taking his cock into his mouth, relishing in the way his protests devolve into whimpers as you swirl your tongue around his tip. Instinctively, he pushes your head down, gently guiding you to take more of him as he breathes out a shaky sigh, and he stops just shy of where he knows your gag reflex will kick in. You look up at him through your lashes, at his flushed face, and the tension in his jaw, and that concentration in his eyes that wavers slightly with each dip of your head. You hear him curse under his breath—a rare occurrence, even in bed—as he tilts his head back, fingers tangling in your hair as he inches closer and closer to—

“Stop, stop…”

He pulls you from his cock so fast you’d think you had tried to bite it off. The way he tugs at your hair both pisses you off and sends a jolt of heat straight to your core, and you feel yourself clench around nothing.

Raising your head, you pout and say, “But you’re so close…”

“Exa—exactly,” he mutters. “I don’t…I don’t want to…”

“There’s a first,” you rest your head against his leg, smirking as you run your fingers along his inner thigh, “you’re usually so eager—”

“I don’t want to finish before I get to fuck you.”

You wonder for a moment if you’re hearing things, but when you look up at him you find him staring back at you with nothing but serious, resolute desire.

“…oh.”

It isn’t often that you’re rendered speechless, especially not in front of Spencer. Maybe it’s the tone of his voice, or the fact that he said fuck like it was nothing, or maybe it’s his phrasing—get to fuck you, like how someone gets a reward, like you’re something special. Whatever it is, you’re pretty sure it’s soaked you right through your shorts.

And then his hands move to your face, gently pulling you up as he leans forward and whispers, “So stop, please.”

You’re nodding before you can think. Spencer’s gaze strays from your face to your body, to the way you’re kneeling with your thighs clenched, and he presses the pad of his thumb to your lips. Without second thought, you open your mouth and, as he smears spit across your bottom lip, you can’t help the way your hips shift despite your attempts to remains still.

“Come up here,” he says softly.

His hands trail down to your waist as you stand up, and he guides you forward to straddle his lap. He presses a kiss to your shoulder as his fingers dance across your stomach, and he looks up at you with an almost thoughtful expression.

“The other people you sleep with,” he murmurs, keeping his voice achingly gentle as his hand slips between your legs, cupping your aching cunt through your shorts, “do they make you feel this good?”

Beneath his mocking tone is a question being asked in earnest. You know that, and yet you still cannot pass up on the opportunity to toy with him.

You raise your hips, practically grinding against his hand as you mimic his tone and say, “so what if they do?”

Spencer’s jaw clenches, and that’s all the confirmation you need to know that he is genuinely jealous. You smirk at him, and he retaliates by slipping his hand into your shorts. His fingers push into you with practiced ease, drawing out an involuntary moan from you as you shift your hips, allowing him better access to that spot that is bound to make you come apart. It’s embarrassing, really, how shameless you can be for him—and only for him.

You try to hide your face in the crook of his neck, but a quick tug on your hair is all it takes for you to keep your head raised. He brushes his nose against yours as his fingers work at a steady pace, coaxing soft sighs as his brown eyes flick between yours, searching for something.

“How many?” he asks calmly.

“Spence…”

He curls his fingers, and you choke back a whine as you buck against his hand. It’s rare for him to be so…composed in moments like these. So in control. You must have really struck a nerve.

“How many other people are you sleeping with?” he presses, keeping his hand tangled in your hair so you can’t look away.

You stumble over your words, stammering like a fool in the face of such a simple question. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing slow circles against the sensitive bud until your thighs start to tremble and you can barely form a coherent thought.

“…none,” you finally manage to say. “None.”

Spencer’s movements cease immediately.

“What?” he asks, ignoring the way you’re shifting your hips against his hand, desperate for him to keep going.

“I’m…I’m not sleeping with anyone else,” you confess, breathless.

“You…lied?”

You flash him a sheepish smile. “I just wanted to piss you off…looks like it worked.”

There’s a pause. A handful of seconds where the only thing he can do is just stare at you with this unreadable look in his eye—something between disbelief and relief. Something new.

And then he pulls his hand from your shorts and pushes you down onto the bed. He crawls on top of you, effectively pinning you to the mattress as he captures your lips in a harsh, demanding kiss. He tugs at your shorts, pulling them off and casting them aside as he ravages you. And then you feel it. The bare head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

As though you’re possessed, you hook your let over his hip instinctively, inviting him to fuck you raw. You have no idea what’s gotten into you, what switch he’s managed to flip somewhere deep in the depths of your mind, but the only thing you want right now is for him to take you just like this.

But he doesn’t. Breaking the kiss, he looks down at you with this half-smug, half-surprised expression that would piss you off if you weren’t so damn desperate.

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

He sounds genuinely curious, the way he always does when he learns something about you he hadn’t expected.

When you don’t respond, he pushes you that little bit further. He gives the slightest movement of his hips, just enough to tease you with the head of his cock, and he watches you fall apart underneath him. He silences your whining with a kiss, but it does little to muffle the way you cry out when he pushes the tip of his cock inside of you. It’s just the tip, but it has you mewling like you’re going to come—and you will, if he keeps going like this.

“Shh,” he whispers. “Emily’s next door, remember?”

You’d cuss him out if you could, but the only thought in your mind is of him fucking you raw, stuffing you with his cock and claiming you as is. You’ve lost your damn mind, you’re sure of it.

“Please…”

The words tumble out of you before you can stop them, whispered frantically against his lips in a pathetic plea. You’re begging for this.

Pulling back slightly, Spencer looks down at you with a serious, yet oddly soft expression and asks, “you’re sure you want this?”

You just nod, unable to trust yourself to speak without saying something utterly humiliating.

He presses a kiss to the underside of your jaw, nuzzling the skin before finally giving you what you want. He moves slowly, at first, taking care not to cause any discomfort as he buries himself inside of you. Your attempt to stifle a moan only leaves you whimpering, and you hide your face in the crook of his neck, holding him tight as you try to keep your breathing steady even though you know it’s no use. You take him all the way to the hilt and, God, sex with Spencer is always good—it’s the one thing you’ll never argue with him on—but this is on a whole other level. This is filthy, and you’re loving every moment of it.

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, and you feel him shudder, barely keeping it together himself, as he adjusts to being inside of you like this. No barriers. No inhibitions. Nothing. You’ve broken every rule that was established when this whole thing started, every safety measure that was put in place to protect you from this. Attachment. Anything that dared run deeper than simple hatred and lust.

You’re both screwed, but that’s the last thing on your mind as Spencer finds his footing and begins rutting into you. You wrap your legs around his waist, lifting your hips so he can hit that spot that would have you screaming if you could—if you weren’t surrounded on all sides by your stupid coworkers. You keep your face pressed into his neck, muffling the barely contained whimpers that spill out of you with each thrust of his hips until you’re damn near crying from pleasure underneath him.

His breath in your ear is almost hypnotic. He’s panting against your skin, scarcely able to suppress his own moans as he fucks you until you’re seeing stars. You curl into him, sinking your teeth into his shoulder and hoping the fabric will absorb some of the noise as he brings you closer and closer to orgasm. 

And that’s when he’s grabbing your thigh. He hooks your leg over his shoulder, fucking himself into you at a pace so brutal there’s no stifling the atrocious noise you make. With a head full of static, all you can do is stay latched to his shoulder and pray these walls are soundproofed as your vision begins to fizzle out around the edges and, all too soon, you feel something inside of you snap as you come onto his cock.

His hips sputter and, the very moment your orgasm reaches its peak, he pulls out with a guttural groan and finishes on your stomach. Releasing his grip on your leg, he collapses on top of you, mumbling something you can’t make out as you both try to catch your breath. 

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, searching for comfort where you know you shouldn’t, and he gives it to you. His hand cups the back of your head, holding you close as he presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder. You don’t dare speak. Neither of you do.

Speaking would mean addressing all the things that have thus far been ignored. It would mean having conversations, too many of them, about boundaries and feelings and where exactly you fall on the spectrum of hate and— …the other option.

Speaking would mean acknowledging that this little arrangement of yours is no longer just a one-night thing—if it ever was to begin with. And it would mean acknowledging that neither of you want this to be a one-night thing. 

But, of course, speaking is what Spencer and you tend to do best, even when you shouldn’t—especially when you shouldn’t. So, after regaining some semblance of composure, you break the silence with your usual sarcasm.

“…this is the past where you tell me you aren’t sleeping with anyone else either, by the way.”

To your surprise, he laughs. It’s a quiet, tired chuckle, but it’s a laugh, nonetheless.

“No,” he mumbles, continuing to lazily graze his lips against your shoulder. “No, I’m not sleeping with anyone else.”

“…cool.”

You opt to leave it at that, content with the knowledge that the two of you are, in some way, on the same page.

And even if you weren’t, one more night wouldn’t kill anyone, right?